


The First Time I Died

by disaster_imp



Series: Finding Home [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eventual Happy Ending, Geralt Typical Angst, Geralt keeps killing him, Group Sex, Jaskier reincarnates as monsters, M/M, Monsterfucker Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Only there's probably no monsterfucking, Polyamory M/M/M/M, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, no beta we die like witchers, who knows really certainly not me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 40,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25926082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disaster_imp/pseuds/disaster_imp
Summary: Sorry about this, my brain has a mind of its own and now you all have to suffer with me while I fix it. Jaskier does not stay dead. Jaskier is reincarnated repeatedly as a wide variety of monsters. Witchers keep killing him again. Until they figure it all out. The ending will be happy.This is possibly going to be the only monsterfucker fic where nobody fucks monsters, but since I am in fact a disaster I cannot guarantee that will not change. I swore I wasn't going to publish this until the previous one was finished, and then Ipromisedmyself i wouldn't publish this until I had at least 10k words down but I have no self-control so here we are.Non-con: Jaskier keeps getting reincarnated as various monster-type creatures and does not always have control over what happens to his body or its reactions. More detailed warnings will be at the start of the relevant chapters. There's no other sentient being non-con.Dead dove do not eat: There are chapters from monster-Jaskier's point of view. Some are quite disturbing/explicit. The monsters aren't always canon-ish. Again, more detailed warnings will be at the start of the relevant chapters.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Series: Finding Home [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048962
Comments: 316
Kudos: 260





	1. Don't cry for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you've read my other fics, THIS IS NOT FLUFFY LIKE THE OTHER FICS. Heed the warnings.
> 
> CW: Grief, first up.

**Jaskier**

  
“Don’t cry for me, Geralt. I’ve lived enough for a thousand lifetimes, travelling by your side. I’ve lived, laughed, and loved, truly, deeply, and if I could have my life over I would do it all again, exactly the same.”

“Loved?” Geralt scoffs, but Jaskier knows the gruff tone is masking deeper feelings. “Your entire life has been a string of romantic disasters, one following another. You never settled with anyone.”

Jaskier smiles as he takes his last breath, reaches out to pat Geralt’s cheek, and closes his eyes. 

“No, my dear. I loved _you_.”

  
**2 weeks earlier**

  
Jaskier hums happily as he potters around his rooms at Oxenfurt, packing for what will undoubtedly be his last adventure with Geralt. Time's stately march has forced him to slow down, over the last few years. He has started to spend more time teaching, less time travelling, as age seeps deeper into his bones, his frequently debauched lifestyle taking its toll on his body in ways he had never imagined during his youth.

Still. _Geralt is coming_. Tomorrow. And Jaskier is going to spend a whole glorious month in his company before he has to say goodbye to that chapter of his life forever. Not to Geralt, of course. Geralt will still visit. When he can. But there will be no more travelling. Jaskier sighs, promising himself to make the most of this trip.

  
**Geralt**

  
"How are you going to ride with that pack saddle?" Geralt asks, eyebrows drawn down in confusion. 

"I'm not riding Pegasus," Jaskier asserts. "I'm riding with you. Put your bedroll, clothes, anything you don't need within reach on Pegasus. Geralt, we only have a month, and I miss you. I want to be close."

Geralt doesn't argue. Jaskier has always been a tactile person. _He doesn't mean anything by it_ , Geralt reminds himself, and steels himself against the traitor in his heart that wants to turn their friendship into something infinitely more sordid. This will be their last journey together. Jaskier can have anything Jaskier wants.

Geralt settles Jaskier, _who doesn't weigh nearly enough_ , on Roach, mounting behind him, arms taking the reigns around Jaskier's far-too-fragile form. Jaskier leans back against Geralt with a sigh, letting him take his weight, and Geralt tries desperately not to wish Jaskier _did_ mean more by it, tries not to want this moment to last forever.

He fails miserably.

Everything is going well, until suddenly it isn't. Geralt is making a loop through Temeria, and has a contract in a forest just off the road between Cleves and Maribor for some kind of werebeast. They make camp, and Geralt prepares his swords and potions, just in case. His plan is to first gather information - perhaps the curse can be lifted, and he follows the guidance he has been given by the locals to the beast's likely lair.

Geralt kicks at bones littering a recently-inhabited cave. Most are human. One is the size of a small child. _No mercy, then._ He tracks the creature south, unease growing inside him when the path heads east, back towards their camp. Caught between stealth and panic over Jaskier's safety, Geralt throws caution to the wind, downs Blizzard and sprints for the camp. At the fringes, he catches the scent of blood. _Jaskier's_ blood.

He moves so quickly that by the time the beast senses his presence, Geralt's sword is already slicing through its neck. He dispatches it with quick, cold efficiency, kicking the body aside before turning to check on his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing present tense is hard to get your head around when it's not your usual style please let me know how that's going >.<
> 
> Kudos and comments are always valued don't make me beg for attention


	2. Pointless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets worse before it gets better

**Geralt**

“No, my dear," Jaskier is saying, altogether too calm for the circumstances. _Don't die_. "I loved _you._ ”

Geralt stares at Jaskier in shock. Horrified, that he would reveal such a thing, now, as he is dying. Now, when time cannot possibly be unraveled and repaired. Now, when it is all too late. _I didn't know. How could I not know?_ He pulls Jaskier’s head into his lap and keens his grief, wild and uncontrolled. Agony builds inside his chest like the pressure inside a sealed jar heated beyond capacity with Igni, building higher and higher until it explodes outwards in a soundless concussion that billows out through the forest in a ring of devastation, felling trees and flinging wildlife away in all directions.

When Geralt wakes, his head is thrumming with a heavy ache to rival his grief, and Jaskier’s body is gone. _Gone._ The forest around him is unnaturally quiet. He can hear leaves rustling, a few birds and insects as they are first to return. In the distance, the sounds of injured and dying animals. Half of his armor is missing, and he is standing in a ring of earth that looks newly farrowed, where before there had been grasses and weeds growing in a clearing. Around the edge, some trees are still standing, others lean at angles better suited to a mountainside, and still more have been uprooted completely, all radiating outwards. He registers only as an abstract thought that somehow he is at the epicenter of this event. In his grief he cannot muster the energy to care. Jaskier is gone, and he needs to find him. At the very least, at the last, he can give him a proper burial. _Dear gods, how did I not know?_

A soft whicker is followed up with a nudge at his back. _Roach_. He scratches her ears. _How the fuck are you alive?_ is voiced only as “hmmm,” when the effort required to commit to spoken language is too much. Her presence reminds him that they had made camp. Bedrolls, fire, food, everything from the clearing is gone, flung far and wide along with the scenery. With typical indifference and a stamp of her hoof, Roach provides him with no answers. 

“Stay here,” he tells her. Fearing that Jaskier’s body has been thrown away with everything else as if it were so much human refuse, Geralt starts searching, pacing outwards from the centre of the destruction. _He won’t be far. Too many trees to thunk into._ Tangible odours of blood and death and disturbed earth are everywhere, and Geralt worries that he won’t be able to scent Jaskier over the top of it. _Jaskier_ , his mind cries back, his very own call and response. _Jaskier_. 

He tries to push his thoughts aside to focus on his search. A saddlebag, hanging from a branch. He pulls out a rope, and uses it to mark his search pattern with methodical precision. A pauldron, a few steps to the east. His steel sword, stuck in the earth by a splintered tree a little further along. He works his way out and in again, like the spokes of a wagon wheel, collecting pieces of armor and equipment along the way. Stumbling into a hollow, he find himself face to face with Pegasus, who is calmly chewing on his left gauntlet. He leads the rotund gelding back to Roach.

At some point in his quest, he finds the body, and then the head of the werebeast. A quick examination reveals a unique finding; the creature was something between werebear and werewolf, without exactly being either. _Fucking mages_. There was no way to tell if the creature had ever been human, or if it was some new, twisted invention. If were means human, what would a bear who turns into a wolf be called? Berawolf?

_Pointless._

There is no sign of Jaskier. No battered body, no scent of him anywhere, except for what lingers on Geralt’s clothing and their shared bedroll, on packs and armor and saddlebags. A sweet, familiar fragrance of crushed yellow flowers and honeyed wine and happy enthusiasm that will soon fade, banished from existence as if it were never there.

Geralt drops to his knees and keens his loss once more.

 _Don’t cry for me_ , Jaskier had said, but Geralt cannot hold back the flood of tears that come unbidden, and in letting them flow, he feels as if he is letting Jaskier down _again_. 

People say that witchers do not feel. It has never been about feeling nothing, but rather about feeling _everything_ , and now Geralt’s everything is too much. Lying down on the damp earth, curled into a ball with his arms around his knees, sobs wrack his body, and Jaskier is _gone_. He cries until he thinks he has no more tears left, and then cries some more until finally, overcome with exhaustion, he finds a temporary peace in sleep.

When he wakes in the morning, cold and exposed to the early chill, the sky a miserable grey to match his sorrow, nothing has changed. Jaskier is still gone. Roach and Pegasus are still present. Not knowing any other way, he defaults to routine and checks his gear. Most of the bottles of potions are shattered, and he tosses the broken glass aside. Useless. _Pointless_.

Looking around the clearing one last time, Geralt sees a curved piece of timber, obscured by a mound of earth, and walks over to investigate. Jaskier’s lute, whole and completely undamaged. _What the fuck?_ Geralt asks himself, picking it up. _Why the horses and the lute? If I caused this, why would I protect these things… and not Jaskier?_ He shakes his head. This is a puzzle he does not have the answers to, and without Jaskier, it doesn’t matter.

_Nothing matters._

The lute gets tied to Pegasus with gentle reverence, and Geralt walks the horses. _What now?_. He no longer has an answer to that question. He knows only one way of life, and so he continues along his path as he did before Jaskier. _Jaskier_. Following a trail, he stumbles into the next town. Something is killing people near the road just out of town, and the alderman names a price. Geralt slaughters a number of ghouls, and is shorted on his payment and run out of town. 

He fails to muster the will to care. 

_Pointless_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I sing 'Pointless' inside my head to the tune of Hamilton's 'Helpless' every time it came up? Why yes, yes I did. I gift you this earworm.
> 
> Comments feed my twisted soul.


	3. Jaski-more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... and worse.
> 
> Content notes: Geralt is pretty deep in depression here and while he's not actively courting death, he's not particularly enthusiastic about surviving, either.

**Geralt**

Towns, monsters, death, the year winds through its seasons. Geralt forgets to make his way to Kaer Morhen before the passes close. Monsters, money and food are more scarce, but somehow he manages to eke out a pitiful existence through winter. Pegasus is reluctantly sold and it's another punch to the gut, but he doesn't have the resources to maintain two horses. It's a practical decision. He refuses to sell Jaskier's lute. That is _not_ a practical decision.

Tasked to take on a nest of drowners in a swamp that sits near the edge of farmlands, Geralt stares into his bag of potions, then closes the flap without taking any out. _Pointless_. He leaves Roach by the trail, walking the rest of the way to wait.

Shortly after nightfall, drowners appear in numbers. _Too many. Perhaps today, I find peace._ He swings his silver sword in intricate patterns, hewing his way through what seems like an endless hoard. His mind watches, detached, his body working by reflex and muscle memory. No thought, only action. Drowners alone are not a particularly challenging fight for a witcher, but sheer numbers can overcome even the most skilled. As the pile of bodies mounts around him, Geralt is surrounded. He cannot be in so many places at once, and he knows that soon they will overwhelm him.

A shadow blocks the moonlight, and with a disgusting squelch, a giant claw spears two drowners at once. Another claw, another pair of drowners go down. Geralt looks up to see a Kikimore stepping over him, felling drowner after drowner until none are left. It shakes a limp body off of its front leg, and slowly turns to face him.

Geralt wipes blood and sweat from his eyes and raises his sword. He is injured and fatigued, but if he is going to go down, he will do it fighting. It is all he knows how to do. _What is it waiting for?_ He roars and rushes it, a killing blow deflected as the creature moves at the last second. His sword, stuck in the giant insectoid’s carapace, is ripped from his hand. It gushes ichor, and one of its legs collapses into the swamp. A killing blow, then, but not instant. Geralt gathers his legs under himself to push back, but before he can move, a claw punches through his armor and pins him to the ground. Geralt waits for a bloom of pain that doesn’t come. He can feel the chitinous limb making contact with his skin, and the impossible happens. Geralt hears Jaskier speaking his name. 

_Fuck, I guess I'm dying again_ , Jaskier's voice says.

"...Jaskier?"

 _You can hear me? Right, okay. Yes, that's fine, this is... all... fine._ Jaskier’s voice echoes in his mind. _You, you are NOT fine. For fuck’s sake, Geralt, would you look after yourself? Eat something, you look terrible_. The voice trails off, and the kikimore is watching him from impossibly blue eyes. It collapses back into shallow, stagnant water, releasing Geralt as it does. He scrambles to his knees, his grief at losing Jaskier as fresh in his mind as if it were yesterday, and he keens again.

Wind whips his hair, silent thunder vibrates in his chest, and this time, a part of Geralt’s mind is watching. His skin glows, and the kikimore glows with the same eldritch light. He feels a massive concussion unleashing from his centre and it hits the earth, the air, the sky all around him. He reaches out to pull his silver sword from the dead kikimore just as the world turns white, and he passes out again.

Geralt is shivering with cold when he wakes, and it is still dark. His back is wet where he has been lying on damp earth. Trees have shattered and collapsed in a ring around him, and water that was flung from the area during the event is slowly seeping back into the swamp. There is no sign of the kikimore, and he wonders if he is losing his mind. Kikimore have black eyes, not blue, they don’t disappear, and whatever obscene whispers taunted his broken mind, they had _not_ come from Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FANCY being reincarnated, only to get stuck in a shape that witchers keep killing.  
> Idk if I need to say it, but Jaskier's not dead permanently. Again.


	4. The second time I died

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Jaskier's POV. He doesn't always have control over the things that happen to his monster-bodies, and there's a reference to non-con in this chapter. No explicit descriptions.

**Jaskier**

The last thing he remembers remembering is pain, and then everything went black. _I died. How am I thinking?_ Everything is dark, and he pushes out his arms in an attempt to relieve the pressure closing in on his body. He presses his hand against the wall confining him, but it feels strange, as if he is wearing a gauntlet. There is a solid barrier there, but he cannot feel it. He pushes his hand against the wall, and then curls into himself, getting as much momentum as he can in the tightly confined space, and punches out. A barrier that had seemed so solid at first, crumbles like dry parchment, and he quickly tears the wall down with numbed hands.

There is light. Too bright, at first, and it takes his eyes some time to adapt. When they do, he screams, backing away as fast as his legs can carry him. Well, that is the plan. What actually happens is rather more comical. Or it would be, if he weren't trying to escape from one of Geralt's nightmares. His legs don't seem to be working properly, and he falls over in a somersault of miscalculation, landing flat on his back. Long, clawed black limbs enter his line of sight, entirely too close, and he screams again, scrabbling to turn over, but his arms aren't working very well either, his joints keep bending the wrong way. _This is it, i'm going to die again, there are monsters everywhere._

Jaskier stops thrashing and waits for a black claw to make its strike, but when he stops moving, so do the clawed limbs waving around him. He frowns, or imagines he does, and moves his hand experimentally. A black claw near his head moves. It stops when he does. He moves his back legs - _back legs?_ And middle legs. Two of those, as well. _Well_.

He manages to wrangle the alien limbs into a position that will flip him upright again, and looks around cautiously. _Kikimores_. He is surrounded by the bastards, and they are paying no attention to him whatsoever. Most appear to be around his own size, and there is a litter of eggshell on the ground as they scamper around. One is a giant, and it is waving limbs around with speed and efficiency. A large wriggling grub is slammed into his mandibles and he bites down on it reflexively, before disgust has a chance to register.

It doesn't taste nearly as awful as it should.

 _Oh gods, I'm a fucking kikimore_.

  
Unlike many of his brood, Jaskier survives. Growth is a fast and painful process, aided and abetted by an intellectually disgusting but physically nourishing diet. Jaskier tries not to think too hard about the things he has to eat. He reaches maturity within weeks, and then things really take a turn for the worse.

 _Mating season happens_. Thanks to his human intelligence, he has survived to become a large and healthy specimen of whatever kikimora might describe as _manhood_. Jaskier shudders, pushing the disturbing memory out of his mind.

After _that_ particular incident, Jaskier takes his leave, silently in the night. He won't be missed - the creatures are driven by instinct, and it's certainly not friendly or familial. He survives, foraging for food within the forest of his - rebirth - for months. Shelter is not a requirement, he doesn't seem to feel the cold any more. Or the heat. Damp and rain do not get to him. Ha, he thinks. _Small mercies_. Pain registers only as a dull sensation. Fortunately, given the whole mating thing. He quickly blocks off that line of thought.

It's a clear, moonlit night. _Shut up, I'm still a poet_. Midwinter, he supposes, since snow is a feature. Not wanting to disturb humans, he has never left the borders of the forest he spawned in, although sometimes a hunter or herbalist will venture past the fringes. He is following a river, calmly spearing fish for his dinner - _not exactly a banquet, but what can you do_ \- when he notices a pair of drowners emerging from the depths, heading for the riverbank. He punches a claw through the chest of one, and then the other, humming happily. At least, he _imagines_ he is humming happily, since the only actual _sounds_ he is capable of making are wet, sloppy-sounding grunts.

He spies another drowner moving further ahead, and kills that one too. More and more, all leaving the river to converge in dank swampland, surrounding a white-haired human. Jaskier forgets to remember that he has six legs now instead of two, and keels over head-first into the shallow water. Sputtering his way upright, he watches Geralt fight for a minute. Closer than he ever really had the opportunity to before. Well, except for that one time. When he died. Wow, that is a _lot_ of drowners.

Geralt is facing away, the majority of the slimy things coming at him from a bend in the river downstream, and Jaskier absent-mindedly punches a few holes in those between himself and Geralt, clearing the area at his back. He steps over the top of the witcher, _was he always so small?_ and, carefully remembering which limbs to secure his footing with and which to make pretty holes in drowners with, clears the area to the sides and in front of Geralt as well. 

He turns slowly to face his old friend, and dies a little inside. Geralt looks awful. _Terrible_. Why is he out here in winter, instead of safely holed up with his brothers? Gaunt and underfed, his eyes are glassy, and Jaskier takes a step forward, wanting, _needing_ , to wrap him up in his arms, before he remembers that Geralt won't recognise him, and _he_ can't communicate. And his arms are now giant spear-shaped fingernails. _Well fuck_.

Geralt is watching him cautiously. He wipes the back of his hand across his face, and then, for all his vaunted non-judgemental 'only if they kill people and there's a contract' bullshit, _the bastard_ , he roars, and rushes towards him with his sword raised. Jaskier is so surprised that he forgets to dodge, and moves too late. A leg collapses beneath him, and he lashes out instinctively, _shit_ , pulling his clawed punch at the last moment so that it strikes only through armor, pinning Geralt to the ground. 

_Geralt_ , He cries in the recesses of his mind.

Geralt stares up at him. 

_Fuck, I guess I'm dying again._

_"...Jaskier?"_

_You can hear me? Yes, that's fine, this is... all... fine. You - you are NOT fine. For fuck’s sake, Geralt, would you look after yourself? Eat something, you look terrible._

He collapses back into the swampy water, releasing Geralt as he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I am fickle, and only decided to include Jaskier's POV AFTER I started putting chapters out there, this is taking a darker turn than I originally had planned. If there are any tags or content warnings you would like to see added, please let me know.


	5. For fuck's sake, Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is not coping.
> 
> Content notes: grief/depression

**Geralt**

_You look terrible. Eat something. For fuck’s sake, Geralt._ The words echo through Geralt’s mind as he makes his way back to Roach. His jaw tightens and he swallows back furious tears. _Don’t cry for me._

To Geralt’s credit, he tries. Jaskier or not, it is exactly the sort of thing that Jaskier would tell him, and he tries to do his memory justice. At the tail end of winter, he has just enough wits about him to recognize that work is still scarce, that foraging and hunting will provide only slim fare. He approaches farms as he passes, offering labor in return for food and shelter for himself and Roach. Mostly, he is driven off, until a recently-widowed farmer with several young children agrees to let him help her eldest prepare fields for planting. He must stay out of sight, so that she is not put in a difficult position with her neighbours, and must sleep in the barn with Roach. 

Roach has lost more weight than she should have over a short winter, but she regains it quickly on spring grass and attention from children at the farm. It is better accommodation than either of them has enjoyed for many months, and Geralt is grateful. The first week, he performs his duties with dull monotony. Meals are hearty fare provided by the widow, but Geralt struggles to focus. _For Fuck’s sake, Geralt. Eat something._ Spoon, food, mouth, chew, stare. _For fuck’s sake, Geralt._ Spoon, food, mouth, chew, stare. _Eat something._

The second week, the routine of eating gets a little easier.

The third, Geralt is clearing a field that has started to blossom with buttercups. The barely-warming sun of an early spring morning gives the grasses and flowers a soft, unearthly glow. Geralt makes it to noon, when a brilliant blue eye stares out him from among the grasses. He leans in for a closer look, parting blades of grass with his hands, and the illusion resolves into an early budding cornflower. 

The ache inside his hollow chest builds again, and Geralt drops to his knees, the pain of his loss slamming back into him with a thud. _Jaskier_. He feels power building inside him, tries without success to rein it in. This time when it releases, the silent thunder vibrates soft and deep, the earth trembles only lightly. Unlike the previous displays of raw and violent power, this time it leaves him like the deceptively gentle swell of an ocean wave. He senses that the difference is not in the amount of power released, but in the distance over which it is dispersed; the gentle effects ripple far and wide. He watches as a wave of energy blows through the field in an expanding ring, rustling leaves when it reaches a stand of trees, eventually passing out of his line of sight.

Energy sapped but still conscious, Geralt claws at the earth, the darkness that he has tried to hold at bay for the previous weeks swallowing him once again. he fights it back, picks up his hoe and returns to work with numb determination. A few hours later, the rocks he has been clearing line the top of a low, dry stone wall, waiting to be added to the structure more permanently when _another_ flash of blue catches his eye, and it happens again. 

He passes out just as a brilliant blue stag beetle, wings humming, flies off towards the wall.

Geralt wakes mid-afternoon, face pressing into damp, loamy soil. Without so much as a farewell, he quietly collects Roach, Jaskier's lute, and the handful of belongings that mark his life, and makes his way back to the path.

An hour later, it happens again. The next time he wakes up, bone tired and half-frozen, it is late morning. Roach is grazing nearby, and there is evidence of a scuffle. Someone had tried to steal his horse, leaving him in the dirt. _Nobody cares about witchers._

_Pointless._

One foot in front of the other. Monsters. Work. Sometimes, he remembers to seek payment. Sometimes, he remembers to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but hey I'm consistently inconsistent.
> 
> Comments are tasty!


	6. The Third, the Fourth and the Fifth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dead dove: sex slugs ahead. 
> 
> Content warnings! Jaskier kills a human, eats flesh and turns into a giant worm that is all muscle and all sex. You have been warned.  
> There are also spiders. Some eat each other. 
> 
> Forced orgasm/noncon for jaskier in this chapter :(

**Jaskier**

Not dead _again_?

Biting cold nips at his bones, and he claws at damp soil. Breaking through a blanket of earth to reach fresh air, he pulls himself aboveground, spitting out dirt, and looks at his hands. 

Covered in dirt. Hairless. Fingernails are a bit... sharp. _Heavily_ muscled, but it's too dark to see many details. The normal amount of arms and legs, that's nice. Human? Humanoid? He seems to have just dug his way out of a... grave. Vampire? Better than a kikimore. Why is it so cold? He brushes soil from his limbs with a few well-placed swipes, wondering if there's a water source nearby to wash the dirt from his mouth, maybe take a bath, and _what_ is that tantalising smell?

He follows his nose to the source, and because it is so very dark, doesn't see the other shapes until he is right on top of them. _Ghouls_.

He turns to flee, shrieking unintelligibly when one catches his arm and shoves a bone covered in rotting flesh into his face. He wants to fling it away in disgust, but the smell... it smells like... the finest cut of roast, perfectly cooked and fresh out of the oven. His mouth waters and he leans in, closing his eyes, savoring the odour...

He shrieks again, dropping the limb, and scampers away, away, far away, away from temptation. He is _not_ going to eat rotting human flesh. He won't do it.

Each day he resists, the cold grows colder, the hunger stronger. He tries feeding on plants, on meat, animal flesh, recently fresh or decaying. They all taste like the same flavour of dirt, but that's fine. It's fine. It _is_. He tries not to remember the enticing fragrance of roast meat. The moon changes phase from new to full, and his hunger grows and it's _so very cold._

Night by night, the aching cold in his bones gets worse, making it harder and harder to function, until one night he wakes up to find himself tearing at the flesh of a half-eaten human, _very_ recently deceased and still warm. 

He is no longer cold. 

He returns to his pack and eats the rotting flesh. At least this way, he doesn't hurt anybody. 

  
The waning moon has long since set, and dawn is approaching when Jaskier hears the familiar sounds of an explosion. Grapeshot bomb? _Witcher_. He runs towards the sound of fighting, hoping to see Geralt again. Instead, in all his manly glory, there is Lambert. Lambert, who won't recognise him. _I killed a human. He's here because of me_. Jaskier steps up to him, and Lambert looks at him quizzically before swinging his sword through his neck. _Ouch_ , is all he has time to think, and then darkness engulfs him once more.

  
Consciousness is slow to return, and Jaskier feels warm and comfortable. He stretches languidly, trying to ease a strange ache in his shoulders, in his - _everywhere_ , all his muscles are sore - but his arms seem stuck as if bound to his sides. He kicks out with his legs, and - cannot seem to separate them, either. His wriggling is reciprocated with undulating movements all around that feel wonderful sliding across his skin, pleasure that mounts until he can no longer think, and his body, which feels like one long, _intensely_ pleasurable muscle, spasms its release _what the actual fuck._

He gives himself a minute to catch his breath, and then realises that he is not, in point of fact, breathing. After he stops panicking, he opens his eyes. Nope, no eyes either. But somehow he can see? He raises his head and looks around and that small movement, stretching the muscles in his neck, feels _divine_. All he can see around him is a sea of writhing forms, worm-type shapes with heads that look like mushroom caps, in all the colours of flesh, rubbing against each other and - and - _oh this is disgusting_ is his last coherent thought before the urges of this new body is overcome his strength of will and he comes _again_. 

_Sex slugs? Penis-worms? I'm a giant, accidentally-sentient dick._

He shudders, which turns out to be a mistake that makes every nerve-ending in his extremely sensitive body tingle. Involuntarily. _Pleasantly_. He raises his non-existent fist to the sky and curses gods that haven't heard of _consent_. 

Jaskier wants to be sick, but this body doesn't seem to work like that. He figures the mechanics of the flexible, powerfully muscular body out enough to get himself moving, and heads in the direction of _exit_ as quickly as he can. Slow going, when no matter what he does, his current physiology has a mind of its own and has to stop intermittently to stiffen and shudder and spasm its way through another orgasm. The only relief he gets is an all-too brief refractory period.

When he reaches the edge of the squirming orgy-pit, he discovers that if he keeps very, _very_ still, he can mostly keep it under control. A little. For a time. He wonders if this counts as edging, penisworm style. 

Eskel appears within his field of vision. 

_Eskel!_ Jaskier wants to rub his head affectionately against Eskel's leg, sweet, kind Eskel, wants to... _no, no don't do that, why am I like this?!_ The instincts of whatever is operating the nervous system of his current incarnation decides to take off in Eskel's direction at speed, the ground underneath rubbing at his body in all the right ways as he moves and _why is it so hard to think?_

He sees Eskel raise his sword, and _everything feels so good,_ and suddenly the world goes dark again.

 _Oh gods oh gods oh gods did I just try to hump Eskel's leg DID I GET OFF ON BEING CUT IN HALF?!_ He looks around for Eskel and the worms, but he is back in darkness again. He moves his arms experimentally, all four of them. Noting, with profound relief that he _has_ arms again, and more importantly, does _not_ become aroused. And legs. Four legs? _Eight legs._ Some kind of spider, then. Eggs, spiders do eggs, right?

The wall is soft but elastic, and pushing at it with his hands and feet does nothing. He tries his teeth, and the thin fibrous membrane tears apart like cotton candy. _Tastes like cotton, not like candy._ He spits it out again. There are thousands of tiny transparent spider bodies all around, and his vision is bizarrely multifaceted. He looks around, attempting to get his bearings. Forest. Trees. Adult spider. Black adult spider with a splash of red on her back, looming over the undergrowth. Giant black widow spiders then. Good to know. 

He looks back at the nest of hatchlings just in time to realise that his siblings are eating each other. 

_Oh shit, time to -_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my brain on 'hey, what if...?'
> 
> Please don't ask me why I can write about sex slugs so easily and not human people sex for I do not know.


	7. Sweet, kind Eskel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel tracks Geralt down. He doesn't like what he finds.
> 
> Content notes: Grief/depression/Geralt is very not great, lack of self-care.

**Eskel**

Eskel is troubled by Geralt’s failure to winter at Kaer Morhen, and as soon as the passes clear enough for him to risk the path, he makes finding his brother his first priority. He searches for nearly a month before hearing the first rumors of the white-haired witcher. 

“Never collected his fee, I heard,” an innkeeper tells him in Ban Glean. “Not been the same since that bard of his disappeared.”

Eskel’s ears twitch. “His bard disappeared?”

“Aye, the fool hasn’t been seen for half a year or so. Rumors say the Butcher –” remembering that he is talking to another witcher, the man checks himself. “It’s what people are saying, okay? Not saying I believe it.”

_Jaskier. Fuck._ “If Jaskier met his end, it wasn’t at the White Wolf’s hand. Geralt would have protected that man with his life,” Eskel says flatly, his eyes hard. The innkeeper nods, but Eskel knows. People will believe the worst no matter what he says.

He follows the trail of rumors past the border of Temeria before turning north again, finally confronting a haggard Geralt making camp to the east of Rinde. His hair is a tangled, matted mess, his clothing ragged. His swords and leathers have been maintained, routines that were drilled into young witchers mercilessly, and Roach looks significantly better cared for than Geralt does.

Eskel approaches without stealth, he has no wish to startle his friend, but Geralt barely acknowledges his presence. Eskel talks, asks him questions, but the nearest thing to a response from Geralt is a distant shrug. He asks about Jaskier, and Geralt repeats the name softly before turning over in his bedroll, shutting Eskel out completely. He smells the mouldy-bitter tang of a pain so deep that he has only seen it twice before: once from a mother whose child he was too late to save, and once from a young man who took his own life after his spouse was mauled by a werewolf. 

Jaskier was special. His joy, his love of life, his unwavering love - and not only for Geralt, it was extended to encompass the only family Geralt knew. His fearless, feral fury, when his friends were maligned that had landed him in hot water many a time. He held a place in all their hearts, and Eskel curses himself over his lack of awareness of Geralt's feelings. Matters of the heart... Geralt has always been so complicated when it comes to acknowledging his feelings. Eskel knew the bard loved Geralt, it was so obvious, so... pure, so freely given, without any expectations. _But Geralt had never reciprocated_ \- at least, not in the same way. Or so Eskel had believed. He wondered if the bard knew. _Fuck, what a mess._

In the morning, Eskel asks Geralt to come with him to Ellander to see Nenneke. “It’s not far, Geralt. Please.” Geralt shrugs listlessly and continues along his path. Eskel catches his arm before he leaves, sadness for his friend mixing with frustration at his inability to pierce Geralt’s walls. “At least promise me you will winter at Kaer Morhen next year,” he says.

Geralt leaves without replying. Eskel travels to the temple of Melitele anyway.

  
“I know he cared deeply for that man,” the old priestess says. “Rogue though he was. I’m sorry, Eskel. Grief affects everyone differently. If he doesn’t _want_ our help, I’m afraid there’s not much we can do for him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short, but the next couple of chapters will make up for it.


	8. Cockacontract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt hunts a cockatrice.
> 
> Content notes: grief/depression. He's still a mess. He is going to continue to be a mess for the foreseeable future.

**Geralt**

Ghouls, werebeasts, zeugl, barghest, bloedzuiger, graveirs, bruxa, wraith: Geralt dispatches them all with detached efficiency. His eyes are described as dead, and people are even more wary of his presence among them than they were before. Geralt deals with them only as much as he has to. The emptiness inside remains: strike, parry, step, slash, his reflexes operating independently of his mind. He fulfils his role as a witcher, albeit one that no longer cares whether he lives or dies. And yet, for all his lack of care, nothing gets in enough of a lucky strike to finish him off. No poisons, no festering wounds, no release to silent death, numb to everything bar the numb void of his grief.

Spring turns to summer and it's verging on autumn when a report of an immature cockatrice inhabiting a cave near a village reaches Geralt’s ears. The villagers can only attribute a single death to the creature: an aging hunter turned to stone, but they blame unrelated events on the creature as well. A young man boasts that he fought the monster personally, and lived to tell the tale. Geralt doubts it, but he finds its tracks easily enough thanks to the man's directions and follows them to a cavern, cornering the beast in its lair. After a disturbingly one-sided fight because the cockatrice is fighting _with its eyes closed,_ the gravely injured beast snaps out a wing, knocking Geralt’s sword from his hand and sweeping his feet out from beneath him. He rolls, smacking his head on a boulder, vision blurring, and all of a sudden, he is done. He waits for the creature to finish him, and instead it stands in a corner, looking _dejected_.

“FUCK!” Geralt screams at nobody and at everybody, but mostly at the cockatrice. “Kill me already! Let me be _done_!”

A giant beak looms into his vision, giant eyes still clenched tightly closed. The creature clicks a noise before collapsing across his chest, and Geralt blacks out.

When he opens his eyes, he finds himself sitting on the side of a grassy hill dotted with small yellow flowers. The sun sits at mid-afternoon radiating warmth, birds are singing and everything is just a little too perfect. Mountains in the distance appear painted against the sky, and Jaskier is sitting next to him on the grass, a bitter smile marring his pretty face.

“I’m dead,” Geralt surmises, and he turns to cup Jaskier’s face with his hand. “Jaskier? What’s wrong? _Are_ you Jaskier? Foglet? Has my sanity gone completely?” He suspects the latter.

Jaskier shakes his head, and tears spill down his cheeks. “N-no. I mean, yes. Yes, I’m me. Or not… really… _fuck_. I’m me, and you’re not dead and please I'm sorry I died and never told you how I felt before but I never thought it would do this to you. Don't give up, I need you. I need you to fix this. You still look like shit, by the way. When was the last time you ate?”

Bemused by Jaskier’s insistence that he isn’t dead when the only alternative is his own mind conjuring visions of Jaskier telling him he's not dead, Geralt pulls the bard’s head down into his lap and rubs his back, waiting patiently for him to work through his tears. Well, whether his mind is breaking or not, he does not wish to let even a vision of Jaskier suffer. “I miss you.”

Jaskier sniffles and hiccoughs, and gathers his wits. “Fuck, I’m sorry Geralt. We don’t have long. I’m dying again.”

Geralt’s mind takes a little longer to catch up with Jaskier’s words, and after turning them over in his head once or twice, they still don’t make any sense.

“…what?” the witcher asks.

“Dying. I’m the fucking _cockatrice_. I don’t know why we can talk like this, but… it seems we can. Something _happened_ , when I died. Something big. There’s a kind of legend in my family, something to do with magic and transformation, but the stories are old and vague. You might be able to find out more in Lettenhove.”

Geralt stares at Jaskier in confusion. “Something happened when you died, but it came from _me_. How long have you been a cockatrice?”

“Half a year maybe, judging by the seasons,” Jaskier said with a shudder. “I remember hatching. Not as bad as the kikimore though. I had a queen. They mature rapidly and wow, do _not_ recommend. What do you mean, _it came from you?”_

Geralt, with surgical precision, narrows in on the one thing he can blame himself for. “I killed you?”

“Twice, now. Your brothers, a time or two. Ghoul, not really sure how that happened, aren't they supposed to be more an evolution than a reincarnation? That was the absolute worst, Lambert got me that time. Then I was some kind of giant dick worm, that was weird and i didn't have eyes but somehow I could still _see?_ Everything felt like sex, and Eskel cut me in half. I don't know why, I didn't even eat anyone. Oh, Don’t blame yourself, it’s been horrible, a lot of very bad – you would not believe the things I’ve had to eat. And kikimore mate… _mating rituals,_ I – oh fuck, find me a way to forget, I never want to remember that ever again I would rather be dead.”

"I've killed people. I don't want to be killing people. The ghoul - and then I didn't know just _looking_ at someone would turn them to stone! Otherwise it's been better than most of the other times, and if I close my eyes nobody gets hurt. And the food is fresh, and most of the time doesn't taste too bad."

Jaskier took a careful breath and sat up again. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I’m fading, I’m going to have to let you go.”

“Don’t go,” Geralt pleaded.

“Find me again,” Jaskier whispers, the scenery around them dimming in measure with the fading of his voice. “Maybe try not to kill me next time. And for fuck’s sake, look after yourself better.”

Geralt’s eyes fly open, his heart racing almost as fast as that of a human. The cockatrice’s head is resting on his chest, and his broken mind goes so far as to conjure up the memory of Jaskier’s fragrance: crushed yellow flowers, honey and wine. He decides the delusion is more desirable than reality, and he strokes the unconscious creature’s ugly feathered head until its dying heart gives its last, wishing it was Jaskier in reality, wishing he could have him back, in any shape.

A tiny part of his brain tries to draw his attention to the absurdity of the situation. How would he ever have explained returning to Kaer Morhen with a cockatrice or kikimore in tow? He laughs hysterically, his laughter soon morphing into sobs, tears that he has not shed in months.

_I killed him. No, this isn’t real. He followed me, and I got him killed and now I've gone mad._

Keening his loss yet again, Geralt feels his grief rising inside. The same soundless rumble, the same concussive explosion, the eerie glow that surrounds both himself and the cockatrice. The world turns white, and he passes out once more.

  
When he wakes again, it’s morning and the floor of the cavern around him has a freshly-swept floor. Rocks and debris litter the edges, and freshly chipped stone walls the only evidence of any disturbance.

The cockatrice's carcass is gone, and Geralt wonders if his mind is also so far gone that he hallucinated the entire encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I love you don't forget to hydrate. Why do flannel shirts have to be Lumberjack in black and blue, or femme and make a fashion statement? Discuss.


	9. Bard the sixth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's POV

**Jaskier**

  
Learning from the spider incident, Jaskier takes stock before taking action. He's stiff, cramped, curled up into an awkward ball. Dark, confined space, just like inside the kikimore egg. With the smallest of movements, he tests his arms and legs. Two legs, but his arms are... in his... back. And something sharp is pressing into his backside, it's getting more and more painful by the minute. 

Not wanting to be cannibalised again, he waits for as long as he can before kicking a hole in his shell. Moving his arms around has no effect, but his legs are strong and his feet make fast work of shredding brittle walls. When the hole seems large enough, he attempts to wriggle around far enough to give the environment a cautious inspection, but it's too tight to move. His legs scrabble at the shell, trying to break more off, but soon realises that he's cleared as far as his feet can reach. The sharp thing pressing into his ass is gone though, so that's one mystery not solved. 

With a flash of insight, Jaskier realises that hatching last could actually be _more_ problematic. What if a whatever-he-is sibling is waiting for him to come out so it can gobble him up quicker than he can learn to walk? What if - ahhh fuck. Without knowing, he could be emerging into _anything_. Maybe it would be better to hatch first, and get a head start!

Sighing, Jaskier exits his shell feet first.

Feet _only_. 

Feet hit dirt, and he takes a few wobbly steps, but the rest of the shell is still stuck over the top of him, and something else throws him off balance and _why is my ass wriggling? Tripod. Three legs are better than one, why do I have an ass-leg?_ The extra appendage whips around until he learns how to control it, and he presses it firmly into the ground behind him. _Stay_. Balanced, he stretches his arms out again, trying to lift the shell over the top of his head. It moves, a little, but not far. When he moves his arms, he forgets to keep the flailing rear limb under control and it flicks out, tipping him over. Hitting the ground with a crack, the shell splits open. _Finally_.

It's as good as any direction to curse the gods at, so he tilts his head and stares up at the sky, wondering which one of them is entertaining themselves at his expense.

Jaskier comes eye to beady eye with a toad, and then looks down at himself in panic. _No, not a toad. I have feathers._ HOoooo boy these are ugly feathers, why can't I be a _pretty_ bird? _Harpy?_ He twists his neck around, trying to figure out what the _fuck_ is going on with his rear end and sees a sparsely feathered, serpentine tail. _How can I be both a bird and a reptile? OH. Cockatrice. I guess that explains the toad?_

 _Don't look at me like that, I'm not going to eat you,_ he clucks at it. _But now that you mention it, I'm ravenous, what's to eat around here? Besides toad. Oh! That's why my arms are on my back, I have wings! That's new._ He stretches them out and gives them an experimental flap, overbalances and plants beak first in the dirt.

Awkwardly flapping his way back to his feet, he notices that as well as some rather sharp talons, there's a sort of extra sharp hook toe thing at the back, and he uses his feet to scratch in the earth, looking for treats. Not treats for his human taste, admittedly. After the things he's eaten recently, bugs just seem _safe_.

The first bug he meets is a squirming earthworm. He cringes, and takes to knocking over rocks in search of sustenance instead.

He grows quickly - not as quickly as the kikimore, thankfully. He grows to roughly the size of an adult human, and then accidentally turns a grizzled old hunter to stone o _h no, oh no, turn back!_

Wishful thinking does not make the hunter turn back. He finds a cavern, isolated enough from humans that he shouldn't encounter many people, and moves in there. He keeps growing, and a couple of weeks later, stumbles across a young couple getting to know each other quite well and slams his eyes shut as tightly as he can, hoping that will be enough to keep them safe. _Are you perhaps short of a marble?!_ he screeches at them in rooster. _Out here, where anything could just eat you?_ By the sounds of their screaming and crashing through the forest for quite some distance, they didn't turn to stone.

For another week, he lives in relative peace. It's late summer, the warm weather is nice, and the sun on his wings is delightfully warming. He even learns to fly. Food is food, he doesn't have to dine on anything too disgusting. Even if he still doesn't like the thought of raw meat, it tastes fine, and his sharp claws become very adept at shredding flesh without making a mess. 

Then Geralt comes rushing into his quiet little cavern, sword drawn and shining dully in the diffuse light. Jaskier slams his eyes shut. _Fuck. Geralt, NO!_ he says, but to human ears it sounds more like a rooster crowing. _Dammit_. He thinks at Geralt just as hard as he can. _Geralt! Ouch, Geralt it's me! Fuck why can't you hear me was that a kikimore thing? I cant see you to stop you - OW! DO YOU MIND?_

In desperation, he sweeps his wing out in a wide arc at ground level, and there's the thud of one very solid witcher hitting the ground.

“FUCK!” Geralt screams at him. “Kill me already! Let me be _done!_ ”

Keeping his eyes squeezed tightly shut, Jaskier limps over until his foot bumps into Geralt. He hurts, he's bleeding profusely and is quite dizzy, and suspects that he doesn't have long, but he doesn't know what to _do_. He wishes they were somewhere else, somewhere peaceful. A nice hill, maybe, sitting in the warm sunshine. His dizziness escalates, and he falls forward onto the warm, solid body of the witcher, and suddenly, his thoughts become reality. He is himself again, Geralt is there with him, and the grass is luxuriously soft and pleasant.

Geralt looks baffled. He thinks he's dead. _He wanted to die. He asked me to kill him!_

Overwhelmed by everything he has been through over the past year or so, Jaskier bursts into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I'm very happy you're still here I hope you're... something... this chaos as much as I am.  
> I don't think enjoying is the right word. Enduring?


	10. We all loved the bard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel drags Geralt back to Kaer Morhen
> 
> CW: grief all round. Geralt is the opposite of better.

**Eskel**

Leaving nothing to chance, Eskel hunts Geralt down and drags him back to Kaer Morhen for the winter in the hope that routine, drills, food, will breathe some life back into him. By the time they arrive at the keep, Eskel has found that Geralt will follow simple instructions, stick to repetitive tasks and is generally compliant, if directed. He shows no initiative himself, and if untasked, he stares at nothing.

Lambert greets them at the gate, takes one look at Geralt and asks Eskel what the fuck is going on.

"Jaskier's dead," Eskel informs the youngest wolf.

"Ah." Lambert looks away. "How long?"

"More than a year," Eskel tells him. "It's why Geralt missed last winter. Found him much like this in the spring."

After the horses are tended and bags dropped inside, Eskel escorts Geralt straight to the baths. Matted hair has grown much longer than Geralt usually keeps it, and Eskel frowns, considering whether it would be better shaved while it isn’t being cared for. In the end, he decides Geralt needs the warmth, and he trims it to just above his shoulders. He can always cut it short at the end of winter, before they leave the keep. He passes a cloth to Geralt and has to instruct him to wash, but he does such a poor job that Eskel takes over. Once the rest of him is clean, Eskel scrubs Geralt's hair and carefully works out the remaining tangles. 

For just a moment, Geralt’s eyes focus on Eskel’s face. “Eskel. Thank you,” he says, before his eyes become unfocused again.

“Dry off, get dressed and then go inside and help Lambert with dinner,” Eskel tells him, before sitting back in the water, his head bowed, hands covering his face. When Lambert comes to find him to eat, his eyes are rimmed with red. 

"What happened?" Lambert asks him.

"I dunno. Nobody knows, and Geralt's not talking. This... whatever is wrong with him. It's not... _normal_ grief."

"Geralt is not _normal_ , even for a Witcher," Lambert points out. "Eskel, you love openly. Me, angrily. Geralt... reluctantly." Lambert shrugs. "If he loved the bard and even _Jaskier_ couldn't unlock him? I was a mess, when Aiden died. It's been twenty years, and it's still... bad. But I think it would've been worse, if we'd never had that time at all."

"I cared about him too," Lambert finishes softly.

"We all loved the bard," Eskel says. "I want to give him a proper Kaer Morhen funeral. Maybe it will... help. I don't know. If not Geralt, then us."

"Yeah. Okay. I need some time," Lambert says, his voice rough.

Eskel pulls himself out of the water and does something he hasn't done in nearly a century. Naked, water cascading down his body, he takes Lambert's head in his hands and presses his forehead to the other man's. 

"I'm sorry, Lamb."

  
The next morning, the witchers of Kaer Morhen begin training. 

“Go easy,” Eskel warns Lambert. “I don’t think he’s capable.”

On the contrary, while Geralt never brings the fight to them, his sword is exactly where it needs to be, before it needs to be there, with uncanny precision. Block, parry, counterstrike. His movements are defensive, but neither Eskel nor Lambert alone, or working together, can make it past his guard.

Eskel adds a blindfold, and Geralt’s body seems to move of its own volition while his mind, imprisoned in its cage of grief, pays scant attention. His body knows, better than if he thought about it, where the next strike will land and how to meet it, even better than he does while fighting monsters, because he knows his brothers’ fighting styles so well.

“He’s not even _looking_ ”, Lambert complains. Eskel watches him with a troubled expression.

“Swords down,” Eskel orders softly. “Geralt, what has happened to you?”

Geralt stares off into the distance, and Eskel waits for his words to filter through the haze of Geralt's mind. “Jaskier died,” he says at last.

Eskel's eyes glisten, and he turns Geralt back toward the old keep.

“Lambert, would you take Geralt and restock the wood for the keep? I don’t think… I don’t think he needs supervision, but I don’t want to leave him alone. I want to check something in the library.”

“You know something?” Lambert asks.

“Just an idea,” Eskel replies, his voice low. “Tales of the Griffin, Raven. His prowess was legendary.”

Lambert acknowledges the name with a nod. “I’ve heard the stories.”

“Before the stories, he was an ordinary witcher just like the rest of us. Something happened to change him. Whatever it was, the mages would have attempted to isolate it, recreate it... maybe I can find something in the records."

When Eskel reaches the library, a casual wave of Igni lights the logs stacked in the fireplace. He searches through dusty shelves, collecting a motley assortment of old tomes, blowing off the years of accumulated dust and setting them down on a heavy wooden table. Diaries, records from around that time, records of communications between schools, visitors to the keep. Picking up the first volume, he scans it for any reference to Raven by name. The fire crackling in the hearth is slow to warm the room, but rather than the cold, it is the unfamiliar chill of fear that unsettles Eskel.

When night falls, Eskel pushes his books aside and makes his way down to the kitchen. Lambert is cooking, and Geralt sits at the table staring at the wall. While Lambert lays out bowls of a thick soup, Eskel attempts to recreate the normalcy of Kaer Morhen, asking after Lambert's year, and whether he has encountered anything unusual. 

“Does a ghoul that didn’t attack count?” Lambert asks. “It just stepped up and waited to be killed, looking at me with these ridiculous blue eyes.”

Eskel chokes on a mouthful of soup. _“Blue eyes? On a ghoul that didn’t attack you?”_

Lambert shrugs. “Don’t believe me, but it’s true.”

“Blue eyes,” Geralt parrots numbly.

“Imagine smelling so bad to a ghoul that it doesn’t even try to bite you – _Fuck,_ ” Eskel says, dropping his spoon and knocking a chair over in his haste to reach Geralt. He wipes a single tear from Geralt’s cheek before pulling him into a rough hug that went unregarded by its recipient, Geralt staring off into the distance, unaware of the comfort being offered. 

Eskel stares helplessly at Lambert. “We need a fucking mind-reader.”

Lambert nods. “Can't do much 'til winter breaks. He'll need someone with him anyway. Left to himself... look at the state he’s in. Even here, with a bowl in front of him, his food is untouched.”

Sitting heavily next to Geralt, Lambert picks up his spoon, coaxing him to eat. 

“Talk to him,” Eskel said quietly, squeezing Lambert's shoulder. “I don’t know how much is getting through, but if he can hear us… I don’t know. Maybe it will help. We should continue training, routine, Geralt included – we all need to be fit for spring, but I’m going to cut afternoon sessions short. Lambert, if you’re happy to keep us fed and watch Geralt while I go and do some research? I don’t want him left alone.”

Recognizing the gravity of the situation, Lambert nods without complaint. 

“When winter breaks, I'd like you to journey to Kaer Seren. You're the only one with the agility to access anything that might be left in the ruins. Perhaps you can find out more there.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more chapter ready to go and after that, there's a plan but it's only fleshed out in parts, so everything will slow down.
> 
> I probably should reiterate: there is a happy ending. Eventually. _Promise_


	11. Disposable assets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel finds a clue, and has an epiphany that's been a long time coming.
> 
> There are cuddles, but they're very sad. 
> 
> CW: Still with the grief. Lambert still misses Aiden, 20 years after his death.

**Eskel**

Eskel builds a pyre for Jaskier's funeral the next day. He stands on one side of Geralt, Lambert on the other, and the two of them cast Igni together to light it. Lambert, tears streaming down his face, glares at Eskel, daring him to comment. Eskel wipes away a tear shed as much for Jaskier as for Geralt. Geralt smells of petrichor and heartache, but his stare is vacant and he does not react.

While the pyre burns, Geralt stares down at a small, icy puddle near his feet. As it melts, it reflects the clear blue sky like a mirror. He suddenly doubles over and drops to his knees between Lambert and Eskel, keening. Eskel feels a hollow ache build in the centre of his chest, and his medallion throbs. _Magic_. Ignoring the discomfort, he looks around, searching for the source, fearing an attack.

The earth around them rumbles and shakes, and concentric rings of snow surge outwards in an expanding white ripple. Fire billows out from the pyre as if whipped by wind, and just as quickly settles back down to its steady burn. 

"Did he - was that _Aard?"_ Lambert asks. "I've never seen it do that before, even for you."

Eskel frowns. "Don't think so. He didn't sign. Some other kind of magic." He looks around again, but whatever it was, it had seemed to come from within Geralt.

Geralt is pale, his breathing fast and shallow, his heart beating so rapidly it would rival an ordinary human's. "Jaskier," Geralt cries, and collapses forward onto the ice-cold stone of the courtyard.

Glancing at each other with concern, Eskel and Lambert pick Geralt up between them and carry him back to the keep. The snow, now cleared from the ground, is piled in drifts against the walls of the keep, and Lambert has to kick it away to clear the door.

Laying him down on a rug in front of the fire, Eskel checks Geralt over. "I think he's just sleeping. Whatever that was must have taken a lot of energy. Lambert, have you been getting sort of - pains, in your chest?"

Frowning, Lambert raises his hand and rubs at his sternum. "How do you know that?"

"Because I have too. When?"

"Just now. Starting to wonder if we have an expiry date. A few times... I dunno, it wasn't much, didn't really think anything of it. Medallion vibrated, bit of an ache, nothing remarkable. But when I killed that strange ghoul? It was bad enough that the next one nearly got me. When I went back to find the one with blue eyes, it was gone."

Eskel was thoughtful. "Same. Couple of times where it wasn't strong enough to worry about. Then I killed some kind of huge worm. Fucking weird, there was a hollow full of the wriggling things. One of them came straight for me, and I cut it in half. Same thing happened then, put me on my knees. It turned into light and vanished while I was watching. The rest ignored me. I have no idea what they were, but I went and killed another one just to see what would happen and... nothing. It was just like any other worm. Whatever happened, I think it's connected to this. To all of us. The day I killed that worm, it happened three times."

"Three?" Lambert's forehead furrows in thought. "The day I killed that ghoul. It was early, just before daybreak. Happened twice more through the day, but I thought it was some sort of - I dunno, after-effect from that first one."

"When?" Eskel asks urgently. "Can you remember when?"

"Not long after I left here, it was the first job I did last spring. Didn't happen again until the end of summer, then today."

"Same. This is not getting any less weird. Stay with Geralt, would you? I'm going to keep researching maybe there's something in the medical files. Call me if anything changes."

  
Forgoing the usual post-burial drunken reminiscing, the mood at dinner is sombre.

When he gets to his room that evening, a different kind of ache builds in Eskel's chest. Empty. Stark. _Alone_. It's only the three of them now. The Conjunction of Spheres was long ago, Chaos no longer the same problem it once was. _The world has outgrown us_ , Geralt had said to him a few years ago. _Why do we persist?_

 _Fuck this._ Eskel storms out of his room and into Geralt's, needing something he couldn't define. In spite of the winter chill, there is no fire in Geralt's hearth, and he is lying on top of his furs, staring vacantly at the roof. Eskel flings Igni at the fireplace with so much force a log explodes, lighting up the room in a shower of sparks. Geralt doesn't flinch, just turns his head towards Eskel as if he has only just noticed him enter.

"Eskel," Geralt says, his eyes focusing briefly on Eskel's face and then wandering off to stare at the ceiling again.

Eskel crawls into the bed, wrapping himself around Geralt's too-still form the way he did after his trials, and lets the dam burst. His body heaves as his fear for his brother shatters his self-control, and he cries into Geralt's shoulder.

"Sorry," Geralt says. "Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry."

On the way to his own room, Lambert pauses in the doorway, and Eskel calls him in. "Need you both," Eskel hiccoughs, pulling Lambert in behind him and burying them all in furs.

Three of them. The last three to survive the trials, now the last of the Kaer Morhen wolves. Eskel never wants to let them go again.

"I want to retire," Eskel says softly. "When this... figure out what's going on. Get Geralt back. Then leave the world to its problems. Fuck off and raise goats. This place is falling down around us, we can't keep it going much longer and I want you both with me. I don't want to worry any more about whether you're going to survive the next year. I want us to be safe, together."

"Fucking _finally,"_ Lambert growls behind him.

Lambert had never accepted the necessity of this life, of what was done to him. Kaer Morhen was never home for him, he only returned to see the others. Eskel understood the need - or thought he did, when he was younger. Now? Now he wonders why. What sort of a monster do you have to be, to take children and reshape them with magic and pain, to perform a single purpose. Men have proven themselves capable of culling monsters. Witchers were the equivalent of wall fodder. Disposable assets, only called in when needed to take out the trash and otherwise expected to stay out of sight. _Fuck_. All these years, putting our lives on the line for humans who think we are too _other_ , who are willing to sacrifice us, _because we don't matter._

"You always knew, didn't you?" Eskel asks Lambert, his words slow, the body heat between them making him drowsy. _"Good little soldiers._ You were the smart one, all along."

"Mmmh," Lambert agreed. "Jaskier saw too. He hated it."

"Jaskier," Geralt says.

"Jaskier," Lambert agrees. 

"He would join me for a few days, sometimes, when our paths crossed," Eskel says, remembering. "The bard. If he hadn't been so hung up on Geralt, I might have... and I didn't see it. Geralt. He's paying for it now, I guess. He's always been so... lone wolf."

"Jaskier came to find me," Lambert tells him, nose buried in Eskel's neck. "When he found out that Aiden died. Wouldn't fucking let me follow the bastard. He kept me angry, punching other things instead of hurting myself. Until I didn't want to die any more."

"I'm glad he was there for you. None of the rest of us were. We didn't understand. About Aiden. Lambert, I'm sorry."

"Never told anyone he did that before," Lambert says. "Jaskier didn't either. I never... never trusted anyone else like that. 'cept Aiden. And you, before it got broken."

Eskel sighs. "I feel like I let you down. Feel like I let you all down."

"Wasn't your fault," Lambert says quietly. "They drove wedges between us deliberately. Fraternising has always been allowed, as long as _feelings_ aren't involved. But you and Geralt loved each other and I idolised you both, and that affected our loyalties. Made us unpredictable. We aren't supposed to want things. They fed your loyalty, Geralt's fucking - do it all _alone_ bullshit, and my anger until they were no longer compatible. _They manipulated us."_

"No. Vesemir wouldn't - he cared about us."

 _"Yes, Vesemir._ He thought he was doing the right thing. He might have cared, but he still believed in the system, anyone who tried to change things would have been replaced. We were nothing more than tools, designed for a purpose. _Things_ that needed to be controlled. You know what would have happened, if we hadn't fought, and gone our separate ways? They'd have _killed you_ to separate us." Lambert's tone is bitter. "Geralt was too important, and if they took me, you and Geralt were still too close. Without you, it all fell apart..."

"How do you know all that?" Eskel asks, interrupting sharply.

"Vesemir told me. When it was just the four of us left. Didn't want to carry the weight of all those secrets any more I guess."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You weren't ready to hear it! Fucking asshole witchers, always taking the long fucking way around when emotions are involved."

Eskel is quiet for a time, and Lambert sighs.

"I miss Aiden," Lambert says at last. "Mad as a fucking cat, but damn he was just... the cats, they took their power back. He never had time for that bullshit. He was there, when you weren't."

"I know. I'm sorry, Lamb. I can't undo the past. C'mere," Eskel says, pulling him into the middle and wrapping his arms around them both. 

"Eskel."

'Hmm?"

"I don't want to lose anyone else."

"I know, bach bleidd." _Little wolf._ "It's long past time we fixed it."

Geralt lies on his back, Lambert's and Eskel's arms entwined across his chest, and stares at the ceiling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert delays here!
> 
> Next couple of weeks are going to be pretty busy for me. I'm sorry to leave you hanging, I lack the self-control to actually pace posting once something is written, but I will be back as soon as I can <3


	12. Wolves are meant to run in packs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why we're still here, I intended to herd the lot of them out of Kaer Morhen right at the start of this chapter but people kept having feelings at me. I'd blame Lambert, but I love him too much.
> 
> Content notes: Lambert/Aiden grief SORRY LAMBERT

**Lambert**

Eskel insists on preparing the keep for the next winter, just in case. 

Lambert complains incessantly. Why bother if they aren't going to come back?

He helps anyway. After all, it gives them both something to do that isn't worry about Geralt. 

Once they have a routine established for Geralt, he does chores without needing supervision. Up in the morning to feed and care for the horses. Breakfast, Drills, Lunch. Split and stack firewood, help Lambert with dinner. A couple of times a week, Eskel or Lambert help him bathe.

It wasn't a task Lambert enjoyed. Not at first. He'd never been as close to Geralt as he was to Eskel. Geralt had always been a little too aloof, Lambert a little too reactive. Where Geralt needed time to get to know a person, Lambert was impulsive and quick to anger, and Geralt's reticence had felt like rejection to the younger witcher. 

None of that seems to matter any more, and as the weeks wear on, Lambert begins to find this time with Geralt, the simple, routine task of caring for someone else, a surprisingly peaceful part of his week. Geralt is slowly gaining weight in response to regular meals. He still speaks little, mostly just single-word answers in response to direct questions.

"Lambert," Geralt says slowly, one night as Lambert is tugging through his hair with a comb, and Lambert pauses.

"Hurts, Lambert."

"Am I pulling?" Lambert frowns at the comb. Geralt hadn't complained any other time.

"No. _Hurts._ 's too much."

Lambert realises he's not talking about his hair, and kneels down next to the bath to see a tear rolling down Geralt's pale cheek.

"Oh. Yeah. I know."

Geralt leans towards him, and Lambert holds him, stroking his hair and keeping the water warm with Igni until Eskel comes looking for them.

"Mighta found something, mighta not," he informs them from the doorway. "There are some personal journals, a witcher who documented his travels. Not sure why they were in the library at all, Vesemir must have found them in a bedroom and put them there after the sacking. The writer mentions crossing paths with 'Raven's escort' and talking to him a couple of times, but never talking to Raven. Escort, like maybe someone accompanied him everywhere. Like Geralt needs. I dunno if it's important, but it's all I've got. Exhausted everything else. How is he?"

Lambert shakes his head. "Same. Said it hurts, but I can't reach him." 

"You look peaceful. Stay for a bit. I'll cook tonight, just head up in an hour or so."

"I don't think it's helping him," Lambert says.

"Maybe it's helping you."

Eskel reaches out to brush his cheek, and Lambert feels himself lean into the touch involuntarily.

 _Touch-starved,_ Aiden had called it. _Wolves are meant to run in packs._

Lambert had laughed. _Cats are supposed to hate us,_ he had replied, and Aiden had quirked an eyebrow mischievously. _Who says I don't?_

Lambert's breath catches as the grief of Aiden's death bubbles anew inside him. It still feels like yesterday. _Fuck you, Jaskier. I have to live with this, and you just went and died too. How is that fair?_

"Can't," Lambert says, pushing past Eskel fleeing the bathhouse, grief fueling his agitation, and he runs the walls of Kaer Morhen the way only Lambert can. By the time his pent-up energy dissipates and he returns to the keep, Eskel and Geralt are sitting at the table eating. 

As he has every night since that first one, Eskel is sleeping curled around Geralt on the bed. Lambert usually takes the other side, protecting the injured wolf, but this time Eskel cracks an eye open as he enters the room, and makes room for him into the middle.

"Wasn't sure you'd stay tonight," Eskel tells him. "Missed you."

"Sleep better like this," Lambert admits. "Aiden - years ago, with what they learned when they took over their own trials. He said the schools are named for enhancements they tried to make using animal DNA. Said there were other sources too, but that's where the names came from. Cats are lithe, agile, silent - but the mages couldn't eliminate their independence. He said wolves are pack animals. We always needed each other."

"Any sappier and you'll start licking people's hands."

"Fuck off, asshole. It's _wolf,_ not pet. Geralt, tell Eskel to go fuck himself."

"Fuck Eskel," Geralt says after a minute.

Lambert burrows his face into Geralt's neck, tightening his grip around Geralt's waist just as Eskel does the same to Lambert. "Close enough."

  
The day the passes clear enough to leave, Eskel is the only one to look back.

They spend one more night together in the small town at the foot of the mountains before they have to part ways, and in the morning they head off together. The pace Eskel sets is slow and reluctant, and Lambert is in no great hurry either. When they reach the fork in the road, Eskel pulls him roughly off his horse and into a prolonged hug. 

Lambert takes the road east, to the path through the Kestrel mountains and towards Kovir; Geralt and Eskel turn south towards Aedirn. 

This time, Lambert looks back. Kaer Morhen had never been his home. Aiden had been, for a time. Eskel, when he allowed it. He tries not to hope too hard that things will be better, the disappointments of the past weighing heavily on him.

"Stay safe Lambert," his witcher hearing picks up, followed by a much softer _"Last time, bach bleidd. I promise."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off we GOooooo


	13. A wrinkle of concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off to find a Yennefer.

**Eskel**

Eskel sets a steady pace through Kaedwen towards Aedirn. They still have to work in order to eat, but with a destination in mind, he sticks to the main roads. Everywhere they go, he asks for word of Yennefer of Vengerberg, hoping that actually heading for Vengerberg is a logical choice. Everywhere they go, Geralt checks the noticeboard with routine diligence.

In a small village north of Gulet, they come across another mage, who informs Eskel rather haughtily that he does not have time for the concerns of _witchers,_ and that even if he _did_ know where Yennefer of Vengerberg was, he would not inform them, and _furthermore,_ if Yennefer of Vengerberg had _wanted_ to be hunted down by her pet witcher, Yennefer of Vengerberg would have given him the means to do so.

Eskel gets the impression the man does not hold _Yennefer of Vengerberg_ in much esteem, and leaves politely without punching him at all. In spite of the man's intent, he had been helpful and Eskel is a little annoyed that he hadn't thought of it himself. They leave the tiny village post haste, he has no desire to stay in the same location as a potentially hostile magic-user, and sleeping rough will save them coin. The bitter cold of early spring so close to the mountains is barely bearable, but they'll survive.

He wonders, not for the first time today, how Lambert is doing, and wishes they had some means to communicate. It's been two weeks since they separated, and after months of sleeping in a pile together, the absence of Lambert is a bigger void than Eskel knows how to deal with.

He isn't sleeping well.

Then again, neither is Geralt, so at least they are making good time.

Stopping early to make camp, and Eskel raids Geralt's saddlebags. Sure enough, tucked away in a hidden corner, is a xenovox. He takes it out and sits by the fire next to Geralt.

"Yennefer," Geralt says, looking at the instrument.

"Yennefer," Eskel agrees. "Can you contact her?"

Geralt opens the little box, then hands it back. It doesn't do anything.

"Is it broken?" Eskel asks.

"No," Geralt says slowly. "Yennefer," as if that explains it, and Eskel supposes it does. Yennefer being at _anyone's_ beck and call seems highly unlikely. Feeling foolish, he tries speaking into it, and there's no response. He tucks it into a pocket, leaving the lid open, hoping it's the right thing to do. 

"Geralt?" a tinny voice comes from Eskel's chest a few days later. 

"Shit, hang on!" He pulls Scorpion up, but when Geralt continues riding, he has to chase after him to stop him as well. He retrieves the xenovox.

"Yennefer? It's Eskel."

"Where's Geralt? Is something wrong?"

"I - uhhhh. Geralt is here. Not injured. Not physically, he's... grieving."

"Grieving _who?_ " Yennefer snaps. _"Where are you?"_

"Jaskier. We're two days out from Vengerberg."

"Oh. Sorry to hear it. What does that have to do with me?"

"Something is wrong, it's not normal grief, he's... _lost._ Not functioning. And there's some weird magic happening. We need your help. Please?"

"Fine. I have a cottage. Not the old estate, it's half a day north of Vengerberg. Meet me there."

"Thank you," Eskel says, and the rush of relief he feels is dizzying. He pushes the horses to get there faster, and his guilt at burdening them is somewhat assuaged when Yennefer's 'cottage' - hardly a description he would apply to something so large - boasts an empty paddock with spring grass for the horses to rest in.

"Yennefer," he calls, announcing their presence. Startled sorceresses can be dangerous, and she steps out of the house wearing a dress that is entirely out of place for the rustic setting, her raven-black hair flowing loosely over her shoulders.

"Still as beautiful as ever," Eskel notes.

Yennefer shrugs. "I see you've collected some more scars. Can we dispense with the small talk and get on with it?"

Eskel leads Geralt over to Yennefer, and his heart breaks a little when Geralt looks at her in the same way he would look at a rock, or a tree, and he doesn't know what he was expecting since Geralt has not looked at anything with any other expression all winter.

A wrinkle of concern flutters across Yennefer's brow, and she presses her hands to Geralt's temples.

"He's screaming 'Jaskier', over and over and over. I'll have to dig deeper to see if there's anything more. Do you know what happened to the bard?

"No. He's not talking. He told me 'Jaskier died', but I don't know any more than that. His disappearance was noticed by folks around eighteen months ago. They blame Geralt."

"Of course they do. Get the horses settled, then come and tell me everything that's happened. There's some things I'll need to prepare."

When Eskel returns to the house, Yennefer has Geralt seated on a stool and is brewing herbs. 

"What - " Eskel starts, sniffing the air.

"Just something to make him relaxed. If I try to force my way past the surface, it could hurt him. It will be easier if his thoughts are just sort of... floating. I'll need you to talk to him, try to direct his thinking. He trusts you more than me."

Eskel blinks. "He does?"

Yennefer looks annoyed. "Yes. He might have loved me, but he never trusted me the way he does you. Now, tell me what you know."

Eskel shrugs. "What you see is what you get with Geralt right now. After Jaskier went missing, Geralt didn't turn up to winter at Kaer Morhen. Found him in the spring not doing great, made sure he got back to Kaer Morhen for the next winter. By then he was half dead. Emaciated, like he was putting one foot in front of the other to follow the path. Things he was trained rigorously for - horse care, armour, swords were maintained. Self-care not so much, he rarely ate and hardly bathed. Fed him up over winter, he looks much better now than he did."

"There's something else strange going on. We had a funeral for Jaskier. Geralt collapsed, released some sort of power. Magical energy. The ground shook, pushed the snow out in a ring down to bare earth. Lambert and I both felt it as a sort of ache in our chests, and the same thing happened to both of us - also around the same time, as near as we could figure - five or six times before. Starting about when Jaskier disappeared."

"May I - " Yennefer asks, approaching Eskel with her hands up. She barely waits for him to nod before pressing her hands to his temples.

"Interesting," is all she says when she takes her hands away again, and she moves back to her herbs. A still-steaming bowl of steeping herbs is pressed to Geralt's lips, and he wrinkles his nose.

Eskel takes the bowl from her, and presses it to Geralt's lips. "Drink, Geralt. Yennefer wants to help."

Geralt drinks obediently, and Eskel acknowledges to himself that she was right. _Geralt trusts him._ He hopes that putting his trust in the sorceress is not misplaced.

Yennefer fidgets impatiently, waiting for the herbs to take effect. Geralt's eyes soon take on a glassy look, his jaw relaxes and his posture slumps a little.

"Talk to him," Yennefer instructs, sitting opposite Geralt and placing her palms on his temples again. "Start with Jaskier, the last time he saw him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We miss Lambert already.
> 
> Fine. *I* miss Lambert already.
> 
> Feed me your thoughts.


	14. Show me the worm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer's fact-finding mission.
> 
> CW: more grief but I don't think this chapter hits very hard.

**Yennefer**

Taking a seat on a matching stool opposite Geralt, Yennefer puts her hands to his head and tells Eskel to ask Geralt about the last time he saw Jaskier.

The repetitive screaming of _'Jaskier'_ is a little quieter, a little calmer, a little more tolerable, and Yennefer lets herself sink deeper into Geralt's mind. His other thoughts are skittering and inconstant, difficult to catch more than glimpses of, but, as Eskel talks softly, a picture grows.

Geralt is sitting with Jaskier on a grassy hill that isn't real. She pulls away, and looks back again. Geralt and Jaskier look real. The rest of the picture looks like a painting, as if it's a dream.

"This isn't... working. Ask him how Jaskier died."

The scene in front of her shifts and changes, becomes dark, tinged with red, charged with pain and fury, and Geralt's brain screams. Flickering images, a large werebeast, the coppery smell of blood. _Jaskier. No, my dear. I loved you._ Grief tears through Geralt's mind like a roaring tornado and no matter how hard Yennefer pushes or how gently she attempts to sink in, all she finds in its wake is static and pain. 

She pulls away, exhausted from her efforts. "It's going to be a slow process," she says to Eskel. Yennefer's words are slurring, and she sways unsteadily when she rises to her feet. "Food in the... thing. Room with food. _Kitchen_. Help yourself. I have to rest before we talk. Geralt should, too."

When she wakes, there's a glass of juice sitting on the table next to her bed, and the not unpleasant smells of cooking food wafting through the house.

When she emerges from her room, Eskel puts a bowl of soup and a crust of yesterday's bread on the table in front of her. A pair of bowls on the bench inform her that Eskel and Geralt have already eaten.

"Jaskier was killed by some kind of hybrid werebeast. Geralt was too late to save him. The picture I got when you asked about the last time he saw Jaskier doesn't make sense, it wasn't real. Like a memory of a dream, except - "

"Except?" Eskel prompts.

"Except he could see Jaskier's face. And the rest of him, in stark detail. People don't usually see faces in dreams, and other details are blurry but Jaskier looked real. The rest was all sort of... disconnected. There was an image of a cockatrice, a kikimore, and drowners, and gods, so many memories of Jaskier, sleeping, riding Roach together, singing, laughing..."

"I'll eat, and we can try again," Yennefer say with a sigh. "Stay away from Jaskier's death, go back to the last time he saw Jaskier. Describe the hill, the grass. Help him remember."

Yennefer passes Eskel a smaller bowl of the herbal mixture this time. "Just a top-up."

She closes her eyes and focuses on Geralt's thoughts once more. As Eskel talks, she is back on the strange grassy hill with a bewildered-looking Geralt, and Jaskier is talking, then crying, and then talking some more.

"Ask him what Jaskier is saying. He needs to focus on the words. It's warm, Jaskier is crying."

Suddenly the scene she is watching is crystal clear. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it," she tells Eskel.

_'I'm the fucking cockatrice'._

Yennefer waits while the conversation plays out.

"Ask him about the cockatrice."

The image flickers, and Geralt is in a cavern, sword in hand, soft light filtering in from outside. Somehow, she knows he's here on a contract, and a wounded cockatrice is almost cowering, eyes squeezed tightly shut. It hadn't fought back. It sweeps a wing out at ankle height, tripping Geralt over and falling forward onto his chest. The same dream sequence, then Geralt with his hands on the cockatrice's head, petting it while it dies. Geralt, keening with loss, a blue glow around them both and the magic Eskel described, and then nothing. Time skips and it's morning, and the cavern is empty.

Yennefer releases Geralt, and Eskel is standing behind him, one hand on his shoulder, the other stroking his hair. She arches an eyebrow.

"He got pretty agitated when you said 'Jaskier is crying'. Seemed to calm him."

"It did," Yennefer nodded. "Helped him focus. He had some kind of dream while he was fighting a cockatrice. Jaskier, in the dream, is saying he _is_ the cockatrice. He also says Geralt has killed him twice, and you and Lambert as well. Lambert killed a ghoul, then he was giant dick worm and you cut him in half, and apparently kikimore mating rituals are the worst."

Eskel blanches.

"What?" Yennefer aks.

"I killed a giant worm that looked a lot like a dick. Cut it in half, it turned into light and disappeared in front of me. It was so strange I killed another one and it just died, like a normal worm. Lambert killed a ghoul with blue eyes." 

"Ghouls don't have blue eyes," Yennefer says, confused.

"Not usually," Eskel agrees. "Both of us had that pain in our chest when it happened, the worst time for me was with the worm, the worst for Lambert with the ghoul. Lambert also said the ghoul didn't fight back, and he couldn't find the body when he went back to look for it. Geralt didn't know about he worm, he was unconscious when we talked about it, he collapsed after he released that magic at Jaskier's funeral. Didn't wake up for hours."

"Can you show me the worm?" Yennefer asks.

Eskel nods, and a tired Yennefer puts her hands to his temples again. "Try to relax, it's easier if you're open to it. Think about the worm, picture what happened."

When she lets go again, her expression is troubled. "That blue light. It's the same as Geralt sees. He didn't see anything turn into light, but he sees the glow and then time skips, as if he blacked out? If the same thing happened with Lambert's ghoul, the three of you are connected, and this happens when one of you kills a monster - different monsters, a handful of times, and the image of Jaskier in Geralt's head is insisting he is the monsters you keep killing, and knows things Geralt shouldn't know. I'd like to have one more try, see if the kikimore is significant too."

"Could Jaskier still be alive? Reincarnating, or... something?"

"Perhaps," Yennefer admits. "I don't want to raise false hope. "Do you have anything of his I can use to try and find him? There might still be a connection there."

"There's his lute, but Geralt growls at anyone who goes near it."

"See if you can find something else." Yennefer helps herself to another glass of juice before sitting back down opposite Geralt.

"Last one," Eskel says, soothing him, and is surprised by Geralt's hand, reaching for him. "You okay?" he asks, not really expecting an answer.

"Jaskier," Geralt replies, his voice breaking.

"I know, love." Eskel says softly. "Can Yennefer have another go or do you need to stop?"

Geralt nods and waits, not letting go of Eskel's hand, and Eskel cradles his head like he did before. This foray is brief, and when Yennefer releases Geralt, she rubs at weary eyes.

"Geralt was being overrun by drowners. A kikimore stepped over the top of him and killed them all. Geralt attacked the kikimore, it stabbed a claw through his armor _completely_ missing any of Geralt, and spoke to him in his mind before it died and dear gods it sounded just like Jaskier. It had blue eyes, and there was that same blue glow when it died. Geralt did his magical what-the-fuck, when he woke up again there were trees down everywhere and no kikimore body. It doesn't make sense, with reincarnation there'd still be a body. But unless he's gone completely mad and is hallucinating all this, the kikimore is just weird. It's all weird, but a kikimore killing drowners to save a witcher who then kills the kikimore without getting stabbed is possibly the weirdest."

"I'm not sure if this gives me answers, or just more questions," Eskel admits. "Why wouldn't he tell us he talked to Jaskier after he died? Why aren't we looking for him?"

"He probably didn't believe it. His grief is overwhelming, and this is impossible. If it wasn't for this connection to you and Lambert, I'd think his mind was playing tricks on him too. If you can find something of Jaskier's, I'll see if I can learn anything tomorrow. Now, I need to sleep. There are other bedrooms... somewhere." She waves a hand vaguely and yawns.

I'll figure it out," Eskel assures her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nearly attached this to the wrong fic and posted it, so that's my day. How's yours going?
> 
> Oh and an early heads up. I wasn't sure when I started this because I am never the one in charge, but we are definitely heading towards polyromantic witcher-fam. If that's not your thing feel free to bow out.
> 
> It's all Lambert's fault.


	15. Lying here like this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just uh. Idk what to put here. Hello, welcome back, enjoy this update where very little happens, just skipping a stone across the river of time.

**Eskel**

Eskel finds a bedroom to settle Geralt in. There are logs in the fireplace, so he lights them with Igni and waits for the room to warm up before helping him undress and under the covers. He needs to find something of Jaskier's for Yennefer to use tomorrow, but before he can leave the room, Geralt grabs his arm.

"Stay," he says, locking eyes with Eskel for just a moment.

It's the second time that day Geralt has sought contact from Eskel, and it's such a fragile thing that Eskel puts everything else to the side. 

"I'm staying," he says, stripping down to his smallclothes and sliding into the bed next to Geralt. He presses his forehead to Geralt's, and Geralt reaches across to put a hand on his hip.

"Sorry." Geralt says.

"Shhh, no need for apologies. We'll figure it out. I'm here."

Geralt nods and presses his face close to Eskel's, soon falling into a deep, drug-induced sleep. Eskel's busy mind keeps him awake for hours, torturing him with regrets for the past. Lying here like this makes it impossible not to acknowledge that he has always had feelings for Geralt, feelings he was sure Geralt shared, but Geralt had kept him at arm's length whenever it looked like something more than friendship was growing between them. And Lambert, who had been foolish enough to love him. His own arrogance, his loyalty to an ideal that Lambert couldn't reconcile. Lambert, who _Eskel_ had kept at arm's length. And then Geralt's beautiful ray of feral sunshine of a bard, so full of energy and enthusiasm and life, who had seemed to love everyone, indiscriminately, but always and especially Geralt.

He eventually falls into a restless sleep well after midnight.

When he wakes, Geralt is watching him, hardly blinking, and for a moment it feels like there is something charged in the air, until Geralt sinks back into his own mind. Eskel drags himself out of bed with a grunt, pulling on his trousers and boots, and fetches Geralt's saddlebags, dumping them on the bedroom floor to search through them.

By the time he is done, he has a notebook and charcoal pen, and the remains of a shirt that is not in Geralt's simple style. Lace and brocade and... Eskel presses it to his nose and inhales deeply. Lingering traces of Jaskier, still permeating the fabric. His own grief rises to the fore and he knows it is only a shadow to what Geralt must be feeling.

"Were these all Jaskier's?" Eskel asks him.

Geralt runs a hand over them and nods, and then looks away again. Eskel catches his chin, stroking his face with his thumb. His scars are aching with a dull throb, and more than anything in the world, he wants Geralt back.

"I'm sorry this is so hard for you. Please come back to me. I need you."

"This had better work," he tells Yenn. 

"No promises. Take him. Leave me," Yenn orders, pointing at Geralt and then the door. "Stay out of my way, I'll need a few hours."

Eskel collects Geralt and some supplies from the kitchen, and heads outside. First, to check on the horses, who are happily grazing in the field. Then, they simply take a walk. The sun is out, and although the day is still chilly, there's a promise of warmer weather to come. 

By the time they return, Yennefer is packing for a trip.

"Well?" Eskel says, rather bluntly.

There is a map rolled out on the kitchen table. "I can sense him. Somewhere here," she says, pointing to the mountain range edging Talgar. "It was easier than I expected. Strong..."

"Lambert's heading for Kaer Seren. Can you get a message to him? Ask him to meet us in uhh... Tansarville I guess, when he's done. I mean - you're coming? You'll take us?"

Yennefer gives a curt nod and takes Eskel's arm in one hand, waving the other over it. His arm tingles and throbs, and after a minute the sorceress is holding a ball of smoke that she shapes into the form of a black kestrel. She gives its feathers a stroke and with a flap of its wings, it settles on a perch in the corner of the room, and she finds writing materials for Eskel.

_May have a lead. Find out what you can, then wait for us at Tansarville._  
_Miss you. Be safe. E._

Tying the note around the kestrel's leg, Yennefer gives it instructions and it flies out through a window.

"Thank you," Eskel offers.

"There's a plate of cold meats, bread and fruit in your room. Sleep here tonight, we'll leave early tomorrow. Horses can stay here."

Anticipating a final night of warmth before heading north, Eskel replenishes the wood in the bedroom and lights the fire.

In the morning, Yennefer creates a portal to the Talgar region in the north. 

In the company of Yennefer, there is no need to work in order to eat. Not wanting to create too much of a stir, inasmauch as a violet-eyed sorceress accompanied by a pair of witchers is capable of such a thing, she appropriates an abandoned farmhouse to use as a base. With the assistance of several nearby farmhands and daughters, it is made clean and livable within the day.

"I can't be specific," she says, circling an area on the map to the north. "He's somewhere here, but we're going to have to actually go and find him. It will go faster if we split up."

Eskel disagrees. "Safer if we stay together."

"I can keep an eye on Geralt. You said he can still fight. In fact, you said he fights _better._ Once we have a better idea of what we're looking at, we can go together."

Eskel's jaw clenches, but he realises Yennefer is right, it will go faster.

He just doesn't want to leave Geralt's side.

The first two weeks yield nothing useful, and the trio frequently overlap on returns to the farmhouse for rest and supplies. Towards the end of the third, Eskel is attacked by an amarok, sustaining injuries as a result of hesitation because _what if it's Jaskier._ The giant wolf snaps and and snarls and drools and Eskel barely holds it back until Aard sends it off-balance. 

He makes his way back to the farmhouse to recover. Two days later, there's a knock at the door.

"Heard there was a witcher up here," a man says. "Got a job. If yer want it."

Eskel lets the man talk.

"Griffins. Pair of 'em. Don't usually bother folks, but they started takin' chickens and spring lambs, regular like, a few weeks back."

The man puts a small pouch of coin on the table. "Ain't much, but it's all we got. Can do some provisions as well. Or instead, if that's yer preference." 

Eskel hesitates before pushing the purse back. "I'll make no promises," he says truthfully. "Let me know where I can find you, and show me their flight path."

Eskel waits another day for Geralt and Yennefer to return. When they don't, he leaves a note and makes for the direction indicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, in retrospect (because it was already written) for Fault, because there needs to be more Eskel sleeping in Geralt's bed (;
> 
> *I* think it needs more Lambert.


	16. Wings, tail, beak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's POV
> 
> Shout out to FreelanceroftheTriforceKeyblade who saw this coming several chapters ago. 
> 
> CW's: this really isn't a vegan-friendly fic.

**Jaskier**

_Another shell._ He quickly takes stock, experience assigning more anatomically relevant terms to his limbs than the ones his human mind interprets. _Front legs, back legs, wings, tail. Beak._ He breaks out of his shell with practiced efficiency. Warmth radiates from a furred belly above him, and he looks around, eyeing his environment cautiously. A shell next to him, the only other one, is jerking rhythmically, and behind him is the carefully woven wall of a nest.

A damp, scruffy-looking bird's head taps its way out of the second egg, followed by the sinuous elegance and silken fur of a small lion's body. It squawks, loud and abrasive, and the warmth above disappears to be replaced by a large yellow eye. Jaskier tries not to cower. _Griffin. Griffins mate for life,_ Jaskier had heard Geralt say once. _Probably not going to eat me._

The yellow eye looks them both over suspiciously, screeches aloud and takes off. 

A second large yellow eye looks over the rim of the nest and clicks its beak. It takes off, circles the nest and returns to keep watch.

When the first griffin comes back with a smaller bird in its mouth, the second one takes off again.

Jaskier's newly-hatched companion sits with its maw open wide, much as he has seen baby birds do, squawking to be fed. He notices the pang of hunger in his own belly, and mimics the action.

The parent griffin shreds the bird, feeding them half each. The second returns with a squirrel, and the first departs again. They continue rotating in this manner, one feeding and keeping watch, the other sourcing food, for weeks. When he's not eating, Jaskier is overcome with fatigue, and he sleeps long and often, his griffin-sibling curling up next to him for the shared warmth.

When Jaskier is large enough to look out over the edge of the nest, he sees snow-capped peaks all around, and no way down. 

As the weather warms, meal sizes increase and both young griffins grow rapidly. One day, he finds himself being gently nudged to the edge of the nest. 

_Uh oh. Do or die, I guess. Must be time to learn to fly..._

Well. He knows about wings, right? He's flown before, after all.

He gives an experimental flap, and the draft created knocks him backwards into the nest. A large beak nudges him back to try again.

Jaskier tries to remember what he saw the fully-grown griffins do to take off and land, but for all the time he has spent watching them, he finds he hasn't really been paying attention. 

_Fool,_ he scolds himself. _You should have predicted this._

When he falls back into the nest a second time, the other young griffin is nudged forward.

Jaskier feels slightly less incompetent when it fumbles its first effort, too. On its second try, it catches some air under its wings and falls forwards, screeching, flapping furiously until it gains some momentum. The larger griffin follows, leading the smaller one back to the nest for a rest after its brief efforts, and Jaskier is nudged forwards again.

He climbs to the edge of the nest and, taking a deep breath, jumps off, spreading his wings, hoping, despite his initial failures, that the mechanics are similar to when he was a cockatrice. 

He successfully misses the ground, but young muscles require time to develop, and he tires quickly. He is guided back to the nest for a rest, and finds the other young griffin already fast asleep. 

Over the next weeks, he builds his strength and learns to control his flight with less frantic effort, to glide and soar, to catch updrafts and enjoy the warmth of the sun on his wings again. Over time, he is slowly permitted more freedom to explore, although he is aware of being monitored from a distance. His eagle eyes see far, and he knows the same will be true of the parent griffins. 

Scouring the sparsely wooded mountain beneath him, he sees something that makes him forget to control his wings, and he plummets towards the earth. Recovering gracelessly shortly before meeting the ground, two pairs of eyes look up at him: One violet, one golden. Hearing a call from behind, the screech of a parent, he realises he can't land without putting everyone in danger, and he regretfully turns to lead the larger griffin away.

 _Fuck_. He needs a way to get away, he needs a way to talk to Geralt and Yennefer without putting them in danger. It's not like the griffins have any form of language, he can't just explain the situation and ask that his friends not be attacked: if they thought either of the young griffins were in danger, they would be protected. Violently.

Testing various methods of disappearing for short periods, well away from where he saw Geralt and Yennefer, Jaskier finds he only has a few minutes before the griffin search party kicks in. Just long enough to dive below the canopy in a hunt for food. His testing pays off, however, when he pushes the limit a little longer each time before he re-emerges, and in turn, the time he is permitted for his freedom gradually lengthens.

Another week, and the eyes watching him are less intent on his every move. He can disappear below the canopy for perhaps half an hour before a call lets him know his time is up, and as long as he reappears on demand, his minders hold back.

Hovering above the place where he saw Yennefer and Geralt, he sees nothing, and he worries that they've left, or are too well hidden for him to find. He pauses to think. They know there are griffins, so they will obscure their presence from above. But perhaps not from ground level. 

Jaskier returns to the exact place he saw them, hoping he is the reason they are there, hoping a griffin behaving strangely is enough to have tipped them off to his presence. So many ifs, and he doesn' t even know he's the reason they are here.

Then again, why else would they be here? It's even more 'edge of the world' than the mountains east of Dol Blathanna.

He glides in to land on a narrow trail and looks about, searching for anything that seems out of place.

A light breeze threads through the trees, spring leaves shiver, and a scrap of black fabric tied to the limb of a tree catches his attention. Following the direction in which the branch points, he soon comes to a camp. 

Yennefer's tent sits, obscured by a shallow cavern overhung with trees.

Her fancy tent.

The one that's bigger on the inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to resist posting this for a day or two but nope. Chapters are piling up behind it and self-control is for other people.
> 
> Griffins! Game griffins are a bit unfortunate, what with the whole _waves hands_ front legs on their wings thing going and I'm more your classical mythical griffin kind of elitist, so Griffin!Jaskier has front legs AND wings and I'm not very good at decisions so idk if the front legs are talons or paws yet. *Flails* Anyway, I tend to smash the bits I like from books/game/netflix together, so yes it's going to be all over the place and yes, that is the tent from the infamous Episode Six.
> 
> Timeline notes: The last thunder-magic reincarnation thing was early winter at Kaer Morhen, which means Griffin!Jaskier hatched shortly after that. I might've oopsed a bit there since birdie season is spring, BUT lioncubs hatch all year round, so I'm taking the liberty. Wedge-tailed eagles fly at around 3 months, so that's on par for early spring.
> 
> p.s. I'm not ignoring the other fic - I've hit another wall I'm just having a bit of trouble jumping it. This is why I _should_ space things out and keep chapters up my sleeves better, but I'm still not going to.


	17. Hello old friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is still not improving. Sorry, I think I broke him. I will fix it! Just not yet.

**Jaskier**

  
Jaskier does not have fond memories of this tent. He makes a face - or tries to, grimacing with a beak is impossible, and squawks softly. He attempts to recreate the melody for _Toss a Coin_ , but his current vocal range is too limited and raucous, so he stops and waits.

Yennefer emerges, Geralt behind her drawing his sword, and Jaskier cocks his head to one side. Yennefer snaps at the witcher to stand down, and the sword slides back into its scabbard with a soft thud.

Lying on the ground on his belly, Jaskier attempts to look as non-threatening as a griffin possibly can.

"Jaskier?" Yenn asks.

He bows his head, and she reaches out to him. He lets her touch his beak, his face, his feathered mane.

_Hey Yenn. Long time no see._

She doesn't react. Fuck.

He looks to Geralt, hoping she will understand, and she presses Geralt's hand to his shoulder.

 _Hello old friend,_ Jaskier says.

Geralt closes his eyes, as if the pain is too much, and Jaskier pulls back, watching him sadly.

"You are really Jaskier?" Yennefer asks him. 

Jaskier nods, and then shakes his head. Nodding as a griffin is awkward, his head turns more easily from side to side. He taps a foot on the ground instead, the way Roach paws at the ground when she wants something.

"That's yes?"

Another stamp.

"I read Geralt's mind, you spoke to him. Can you still do that?"

Jaskier stamps again.

"It doesn' t work with me?"

Jaskier shakes his head. The screech of a parent griffin sounds, much too close. Jaskier looks at Geralt sadly and gives Yennefer's leg a nudge of appreciation before turning away.

He can try again tomorrow.

  
The next morning, Jaskier flies directly to the camp, screeching a greeting as he lands.

Yennefer puts Geralt's hand on his furred shoulder.

"Talk to him, Geralt," she says.

_Geralt, please. It's really me._

Geralt shakes his head. "Jaskier's dead."

Jaskier tries to recreate the dream-like vision he spoke to Geralt in before. The grass, the hill, the sky, and Geralt pops into existence. Yennefer does not.

"You're not really here," Geralt says, looking around distantly. "I've gone mad, haven't I?"

"No, darling. I'm really here."

"Why am I doing this to myself?" Geralt asks him. "Just to hope it's real, only to have that destroyed again? I can't..."

"Well hey, mister stubborn, I'm not having a whole lot of fun here, either!"

The vision dissolves in frustration, and he's fairly sure that if he were his former human self, he'd also be facing the challenge known as 'trying not to cry in public'.

_Dammit._

Reluctant to distress Geralt further, he turns to Yennefer, hoping she will have a solution to their communication nightmare. 

"I may be able to read your mind, even if we can't talk like you can with Geralt. May I?"

Jaskier bows his head in a nod, and Yennefer puts her hands around his skull and closes her eyes. "Think of what you want to tell me," she says. 

_He doesn't believe I'm real. I keep getting reincarnated as different monsters._

Yennefer releases his head, disappointed. "I'm not getting enough. Just flashes... but your aura is the same. What if I ask you questions, like yesterday?"

Jaskier stamps his foot.

"Can you stay?"

Jaskier shakes his head and looks upwards.

"You're being watched?"

Jaskier stamps his foot again.

"When can you come back?"

Jaskier tries to find a posture that indicates the ridiculousness of asking a question he can't answer with a yes or a no, and makes Yennefer smile when he turns around in circles.

"Sorry. Can you come back today?"

Jaskier stamps.

"This afternoon?"

Another stamp.

That settled, Jaskier takes off just as the familiar calling screech rings from above, and heads back to the griffin's nest for a rest. 

  
When he returns in the early afternoon, just as he is about to sprial into land, he spies another familiar figure approaching from the south.

A wyvern is gliding silently towards it. 

Jaskier, recognising the advantage of his height, circles around to drop on the wyvern from behind and lands on its back, screeching a warning at Eskel just before he tears into its neck with beak and claws. They thud into the ground, tumbling together along the path towards Eskel, who jumps out of the way, swords already drawn.

Finding his feet first, the wyvern's long neck still caught in his beak, Jaskier gives a solid _crunch_ and twists his head, and the creature lies still.

He backs off, watching Eskel cautiously. Yennefer and Geralt, called by the noise, can be seen standing in the distance. Jaskier decides to play it safe and takes flight again, landing behind them.

Eskel sprints after him, skidding to a halt when he sees the griffin sitting calmly between Yennefer and Geralt.

"Seems he can only talk to Geralt," Yennefer tells him. "But it's Jaskier. Geralt is convinced his mind is playing tricks, he doesn't believe it's real. Maybe you can convince him."

Eyes wide, Eskel reaches out towards the griffin, bemused by its apparent docility. As if he hadn't just seen it _tear the head off a wyvern._

The deep rumble of a large cat purring reverberates in the air, and Eskel drops to one knee, pulling the griffin's head close, burying his face in its mane and stroking its fur.

 _You always were the affectionate one,_ Jaskier thinks fondly. Eskel jumps.

 _YOU CAN HEAR ME?!_ Jaskier shouts with his mind. The griffin crouches and pounces, knocking Eskel onto his back and sitting on his chest. It clicks its beak and a long, coarse tongue licks a stripe up Eskel's neck and across his face, carefully avoiding the most tender scars. 

"I can hear you," Eskel says out loud. 

A screech sounds in the distance, and the griffin turns a large blue eye on Eskel. _I have to go. You don't want my current much-larger-than-me parents dropping by for a surprise visit. I'll come back in a few hours._

If griffins could smile, Jaskier would be beaming from ear to ear. He gives Eskel's face one last, gentle nudge before taking off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was never going to be that easy.


	18. Ask him how he feels about curses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel's POV
> 
> CWs: mental health, Geralt doubting reality.

**Eskel**

He watches the griffin until it's out of sight before turning to greet Yennefer and Geralt. 

Nodding to Yennefer, Eskel gives Geralt a gentle hug. Geralt leans into it, his breathing rapid, his posture stiff, but he doesn't say anything.

"He's no better? Finding Jaskier didn't help?" he asks.

"I think it's making him worse," Yennefer admits. "He thinks his mind is playing tricks on him. Tread carefully, Eskel. I don't know how to fix this. Come inside, the kettle's hot."

He'd heard about Yennefer's luxurious tent, but the stories Geralt told didn't prepare him for the size. The bed would sleep the three of them easily, for a start. Assuming Yennefer is amenable. A bed roll on the floor is no big deal, he supposes, since a bedroll on the ground is all he usually has. There are cooking facilities, a table, chests and drawers, rugs on the floor. Eskel wonders how the magic works. No wonder they were able to stay out more than a few days.

"How long have you been here?" he asks. "When did Jaskier - "

"A week. He nearly crashed into us."

"Crashed?"

Yennefer smiles. "It's _Jaskier._ He faltered when he saw us. Dropped like a stone, he recovered just before he hit the ground, right in front of us. Blue eyes. Another griffin screeched when he nearly crash-landed and he led them away. We set up camp and waited. I didn't know, not for sure, until yesterday. His freedom is still limited and he's trying not to draw the others here. He can't talk to me, but it's _his_ aura."

"Smells like him, too. He says he'll come back in a few hours," Eskel tells her.

Yennefer passes him two mugs of steaming tea, one for himself and one for Geralt, who has seated himself on a rug on the floor, and sits outside to drink her own.

Eskel kneels on the floor opposite Geralt, knees touching, and offers him the tea. 

"How are you feeling?"

Geralt shrugs.

"You saw Jaskier today."

Geralt turns his head to the side, away from Eskel. "Jaskier died," he says softly.

"Geralt, Jaskier's alive. I just spoke to him."

The look Geralt gives him is one of complete betrayal.

Eskel reaches a hand out in panic, cupping Geralt's face, surprised when Geralt leans into his hand.

"Don't. Please don't you be my madness too. _Please, Eskel._ "

"You're not mad, wolf."

Geralt shakes his head in denial, and Eskel can't hold back any longer, and he pulls Geralt into his arms. "I'm sorry. Geralt, I'm lost. I don't know what to say that will help you. I don't know what to do."

"Be real," Geralt whispers. "I don't know what's real any more."

A tightness fills Eskel's throat making it hard to swallow, and he does his best to stem his panic and just be there for Geralt, without making things worse again. _I love you, wolf,_ he thinks, and he wants to say it, but anything out of character might force Geralt to question his sanity further, and so he holds his tongue.

He has no idea how they're going to deal with Jaskier's return, without further upsetting Geralt. 

  
"I can't even broach the subject, he thinks it's part of a delusion," Eskel tells Yennefer. "I think I should back off. He needs stability, something he can believe in."

Yennefer sighs. "I was afraid of that. There are mages that specialise in damaged minds, but nobody I'd trust with a witcher."

"I tried to get him to the temple of Melitele last year, but he didn't want to cooperate. Didn't know it was this bad, then. Perhaps we could try there."

"Minds were Nenneke's specialty. I doubt she's still alive."

"She was a year ago. I fear it won't be long, but her mind is still sharp. We just need to steal Jaskier away."

"We could... " Yennefer waves her hands in the direction of the griffin aerie suggestively.

"Don't think I'd feel right about that. They're technically his parents. There's a price on the griffins, but I'm told they don't usually bother the people around here. Expect they've just been raiding the farmyards to feed two chicks. With spring here and one less mouth to feed they'll probably go back to not bothering people again. They haven't hurt anyone."

"They might if you steal Jaskier away," Yennefer points out.

"Young usually stay with the parents for nearly a year," Eskel says. "Not sure how we'd accelerate that. Don't suppose you could make them forget?"

Yennefer arches an eyebrow. "I couldn't read Jaskier's mind. Something tells me bird brains aren't quite the same as human brains."

"Oh. Well. What are we going to do when Jaskier gets back?" Eskel looks pointedly at Geralt.

"I'll stay with him, you go talk to the bard. See what you can work out."

"Anything you want me to ask him?"

"See if he knows why this is happening. And... ask him how he feels about curses."

"Why?"

"Because there's no reason I can't curse a griffin to take human form every full moon, just like any other therianthropy curse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lot shorter a few days ago, and I had intended to tack it onto the last chapter but I am very easily distracted and forgot, so now it's a little longer and its own short chapter. Enjoy!


	19. It's a very nice leg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there's anything warning-worthy in here, it's just Eskel and Jaskier talking and some cuddles.

**Jaskier**

_Eskel, Eskel, Eskel,_ the mantra runs on repeat through Jaskier's mind, and he tries to subdue his excitement. _Eskel is here, Eskel can hear me._

He spends a few hours maintaining a pattern, disappearing into the trees in different locations, and emerging again half an hour later. With his friends here, he needs to figure out an exit strategy - one that doesn't involve bringing a pair of adult griffins down on top of them, or nearby farmfolk and villagers, when he disappears for good.

When he returns to the camp later in the afternoon, Yennefer is sitting outside the tent, and Eskel is summoned.

 _How is he?_ Jaskier asks. 

"Not good," Eskel admits. "He thinks he's gone mad, and if I try to convince him otherwise, he thinks it's part of his madness. He needs me to be safe, and I can't..."

_He doesn't believe me either. My presence is hurting him. I don't want to hurt him, Eskel. I don't know what to do._

A note of hysteria is creeping into Jaskier's tone, and it's one Eskel can't soothe because he doesn't know either. He leans on Jaskier's shoulder and sighs. "Me either. But we came to find you. I'm sorry it took so long to figure it out."

 _Hang on,_ Jaskier tells him. _I'm going to try something._

Choosing a place he is more familiar with than a vaguely nondescript pleasant hill, Jaskier closes his eyes. The next moment, he and Eskel are standing in his rooms at Oxenfurt Academy, and it looks exactly as he remembers.

"How...?" Eskel asks.

"No idea. Discovered it by accident, I... the first time Geralt killed me, I was a kikimore. I lashed out by reflex, and made contact with Geralt's skin. I was just babbling to myself and Geralt answered. Then with the cockatrice, I wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere nice, and then we were sitting outside on a hill. We're not really there, you're just seeing what I'm seeing. I couldn't do this with Yenn, she can't hear me either. Just you and Geralt."

"Maybe Lambert," Eskel says. "There's something connecting us. Whenever you die, we all feel it."

"Oh."

"We had a funeral for you."

"I'm sorry. I tried to tell him."

"I know, Yennefer read his mind. I'm sorry I killed you."

Jaskier cringes. "That was... look, a lot of the things I was, weren't very pleasant experiences. That one was... I had very little control, and I'm glad it didn't last long. I was so happy to see you, but the body I was in just wanted to fuck your leg. So."

"Oh," Eskel says, pondering for a minute, and then glancing down at his leg, a concerned expression crossing his face. "You don't still want to fuck my leg? It's a very nice leg."

It's rare for Jaskier to be caught speechless by anything suggestive, but this is _Eskel,_ and Jaskier is nearly two years out of practice.

Eskel's eyes crinkle with mirth at Jaskier's wide-eyed stare, but Jaskier is not about to be defeated at wordplay by a _witcher_.

"What would you do if I said yes?" Jaskier asks, ogling the limb in question.

Eskel chokes on his own laughter and pulls Jaskier into a rough hug. "I'm glad you're not dead. I - _we_ \- have questions, if you're up to talking about it."

"I'll tell you everything, but can it wait? It's been so long since I had anyone to talk to, and I'm a little pissed off, and feeling guilty but also _pissed off_ that _Geralt_ is the one having a hard time with all this when I'm the one who died, and I don't even _know_ when the last time I got to touch someone was, and -"

"Hmm. Are the chairs solid?" Eskel interrupts.

" - and... I... what?" Jaskier asks, deflating a little.

"The chairs. If we're in your head, are they solid or an illusion? Will I fall on my ass if I try to sit down?"

"Eskel, I'm pouring my heart out here!" 

Eskel ignores him and pushes his knee into a large leather armchair that sits in front of a stacked fireplace, testing its stability. A quick Igni lights the logs already placed, and he smiles at the offended huff he hears from behind him.

"I hope that didn't set fire to anything out there," he says, waving a hand to indicate 'out there' in general, and standing up again.

  
"It didn't," Jaskier says, scowling.

Eskel turns to Jaskier, one eyebrow raised, and in a single swift movement, picks him up bridal-style and sits back in the armchair, holding Jaskier firmly in his lap.

Jaskier emits an undignified squeak at the manhandling.

"Thought maybe you could pour your heart out a little more comfortably. Is this okay?" Eskel asks.

"Bit late to ask now, isn't it?"

"I like surprising you," Eskel says with a shrug.

"Yes," Jaskier says, curling his legs up and leaning on Eskel's chest while Eskel snakes an arm around his waist and buries his nose in Jaskier's neck, breathing deeply. "This is very okay. Are you _scenting_ me?"

Eskel draws back. "You smell good. Smell the same. As before. Sorry. Do you want me to stop?"

"What do you mean, I smell the same?"

"Didn't Geralt tell you...? No, of course he didn't. Everyone has a scent profile. Yours is nice, like honeyed wine and dandelions. Or buttercups."

Jaskier frowns. "Is that why Lambert calls me buttercup?"

Eskel's deep laugh rumbles through his belly. "Yes, but it's also your _name_. More than that. Buttercups are persistent, hardy survivalists. Poisonous, if you're silly enough to eat them. Lambert _likes_ your feral side. We all do."

"Geralt was often impatient with me. Is that why, because of my smell?"

"I expect so. His senses are even stronger, with the extra mutations. It can get overwhelming. It's harder to keep people safe when you're distracted, and Geralt had to work harder than the rest of us to keep that under control. I didn't realise he cared so deeply for you, or I would have knocked some sense into him. I'm sorry."

"I knew. I thought he just preferred to keep it platonic, you know? It didn't matter really, as long as we had time together, I thought he was just happy with the way things were. It's not like I wasn't _obvious."_

Eskel sighs. "Geralt's... not very easy to court, in that respect."

Jaskier sits up, watching Eskel carefully. "Speaking from experience?"

Pinned in place by Jaskier's intent gaze, Eskel finds himself unable to answer.

"Holy fuck, you're in love with him too." Jaskier breathes, and his tone turns angry. "What the _fuck_ is wrong with him?"

It's Eskel's turn to look surprised, liquid amber eyes open wide. "Are you really going to sit there and argue over why he's an idiot for not pursuing _me?"_

Jaskier juts out his chin. "Yes. Look at you, you're perfect, why wouldn't he want you?"

Eskel sputters. _"I'm perfect? Have you never looked in a mirror?"_

Jaskier chews on his lower lip for a minute, his expression speculative. "I think perhaps we share a fault. Being a little too gentle with our white wolf, when what he needed was hitting over the head. Well, I guess we can hope it's not too late."

  
Over the next week, Jaskier comes and goes regularly, telling them everything he knows, and in turn learning what Eskel and Yennefer think they know. Every incarnation, about Lettenhove and his family mystery. By the end of the week, Jaskier has managed to extend the limits on his freedom to almost two hours, but they are still no closer to extricating him from the griffin family group.

In the end, it's Jaskier that suggests a workable solution: he can just say no. He's too big now to be picked up and returned to the nest by the scruff of his neck, so if he lands somewhere visible and stays there, his minders can pester him until they get bored. 

"If I move a little further out each day, I think they'll just let me go eventually. They have another, less pain-in-the-ass child to look after, after all. I'm already pushing the usual boundaries. The other cub still isn't allowed out of sight for more than a few minutes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The explicit tag WILL be earned at the very end, so if you're here for that you'll have to be patient. 
> 
> I had a bunch of fun writing this chapter, I hope you enjoyed it too (:


	20. An eclectic assortment of ropes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Probably time we checked on Lambert, eh?

**Lambert**

Three weeks after leaving Eskel and Geralt, Lambert is tired. He's been pushing both himself and his horse, the thought of finally being able to do his own thing urging him on.

That isn't quite true. He's always been _able_ to do his own thing, and if that is disapproved of he is perfectly capable of telling anyone who thinks they know what he should be doing instead to go fuck themselves. But without Aiden, without Eskel and Geralt, what is the _point?_

Stopping for the night, Lambert makes sure the horse is tended and lights a small fire, not bothering to cook. Travel rations and a crust of stale bread, the last of a loaf purchased several days ago, are washed down with water, his canteens freshly filled from a babbling stream he'd crossed earlier in the day.

From the corner of his eye, Lambert catches some movement in the sky, and his eyes track a black object hurtling towards him at speed. He draws his silver sword in preparation, but as it approaches, the shape slows, wings flapping, coming to rest on a log on the other side of the fire. 

"Don't think you lot come in black," Lambert tells it, scenting the air suspiciously. "What are you?"

"Message from Lady Yennefer," the kestrel says, holding out a leg.

Keeping his sword ready, Lambert removes a small scroll from the proferred limb.

"Anything else?"

The bird takes off in silence, somersaulting mid-flight and disappearing in a cloud of black smoke. 

The note is in Eskel's handwriting. _Wait for us at Tansarville._ He's still a week out from Kaer Seren. Eskel knows it would take him nearly a month to get there, so whatever they're doing, they won't expect him for at least two more weeks. Probably three. 

He balls the note up, preparing to throw it on the fire, and then stops. He smoothes the parchment back out again. _Miss you. Be safe. E._

"Sentimental old fuck," Lambert mutters, folding the note and storing it safely in a saddlebag.

The Journey to Kaer Seren has been largely uneventful, and the hardest thing about the final week is a dangerous switchback path suspiciously similar to Kaer Morhen's. Lambert has picked up a few easy contracts on the way, camping out to save coin, so he is adequately stocked with provisions. 

At the top of the path, he turns the horse out into an old paddock and assesses the rubble.

It's not identical to Kaer Morhen - Kaer Seren was well known for the large library that was used to bring the keep down, but there were so many similarites in the remaining architecture that Lambert was confident there would be similarities in its design. Decades of repairs and finding ways to shore up the decaying structures of Kaer Morhen would stand him in good stead. Setting up camp and a couple of makeshift traps in the hope of a few easy meals, he retires for the night to start fresh in the morning.

The next day, he starts exploring. First, to establish areas that are safe, and areas that are not, and of the latter, which can be easiily stabilised. In many places, vines have intertwined with supporting structures, providing additional risk with the extra weight, their roots invading structural integrity, forcing stones and mortar apart. 

Lambert pulls an eclectic assortment of ropes from his pack, many collected on the way for just this purpose. He always keeps a couple handy - he doesn't normally use ropes to climb, but he is usually climbing more stable structures. With the risk of walls collapsing under him, he isn't going to take any chances. While he is confident Eskel would prefer him to be safe than buried under rubble with, there's not much point finding information if it dies with him. 

Starting at the top and working down, Lambert searches through the areas of the ruins he can access. The little that is survives of the top level turns out to be a waste of time. Open to the elements, anything useful has long since rotted away, but he wants to be thorough.

The view makes it worth the effort, just as the view from the highest points of Kaer Morhen does.

The rest of the old building is trickier. There are floors that have collapsed on top of each other like a stack of pancakes. Walls that lean into another wall, tilting it so that they look like dominos, frozen in time before they can fall and knock the next one over. 

After five days of exploration and nought to show for it but some scraps of rotted fabric, broken glass and ceramics, and an occasional rusted sword or tool, overlooked in spite of previous looters. On the sixth day, he finds a narrow passage that gives him access to a small corner of the library. He almost gives that up, until he realises that the collapsed wall impeding his progress isn't a wall at all. It's the back of a giant stone bookcase.

Reminding himself that the library was used to bring the entire keep down on top of it and that the bookcase is probably being weighted down by whole upper floors, Lambert explores what he can of the structure directly over it, finding that the library was vaulted, and only half of its roof has collapsed.

Returning to the narrow passage, positioning himself as far as he can from any related structures, he tosses in a grapeshot bomb and waits for the dust to settle.

The stone bookshelf has a crack through its centre, but otherwise hasn't budged. Lambert places another bomb inside the crack, and retreats to toss in a second.

When he looks in again, the half of the shelf closest to the entrance is still standing. The half on the other side of the crack is rubble. There's no light, and rather than down a potion to help him see, Lambert fashions a torch from a tree limb, wrapping a length of rope around one end and dousing it in oil.

A small portion of the library is intact, and although it isn't completely protected from the elements - the collapsed half has let in water and small creatures - overall, it's not in bad shape. 

Whether any of the information stored here has survived remains to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit mad that this chapter is so mundane, but I'm team Lambert all the way and wanted to get up to speed with what he's up to.
> 
> Leave me your thoughts in the slot below (:


	21. If he could just push through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: adhd themes

**Lambert**

Listening carefully for any of the sighs and creaks that could indicate structural movement, Lambert waves his torch inside, The dismal glow of its light doesn't reach far, so he adds a flare of Igni to enhance it.

Three quarters of the room is taken up by a landslide of rubble, laced with vines and moss. Tables that must have once stood proudly in the centre of the room have been pushed outwards by the mess, some sitting right up against the bookshelves that line the walls. The ceiling above him - and there is far more to see of that than the floor - is intact except for the breach, and there doesn't seem to be any worrying bows or cracks in the structural framework on this side of the room. 

Turning his attention to the shelves, Lambert picks up a book, opens it, and groans. The faintest hum of his medallion recognises the tingle of magic. The books are intact, their pages dry, the ink crisp. They look new. Which is great, of course it is. He might _actually_ find something, but... there's a reason _Eskel_ did the research at Kaer Morhen, and it's not a task Lambert relishes.

Sighing, he gets to work, quickly realising that, just like at Kaer Morhen, the books are neatly grouped by subject. The first three bookshelves he can access are primarily volumes the young wolf witchers were also made to study, and there are few he doesn't recognise. He puts the ones he doesn't know in a pile, just in case there's anything of interest.

The fourth set of shelves is a little more interesting. It largely consists of journals from the witcher-making mages. There are collections of descriptions of mutations from all schools, attributes, personality traits, things that had been studied and attempts to recreate favourable attributes via mutation. No recipes, nothing too secret would be stored in a library that was accessible to just any witcher. These are dated, so he separates the Kaer Seren journals from the others, and further divides them into time periods that are most likely to discuss the witcher Raven. When he finishes, there are just over a dozen journals for him to review. _That was almost too easy,_ he thinks.

The fifth covers the history of Kaer Seren, all the way back to the split from the Order of Witchers, centuries ago; the sixth, the histories of the other schools. He scours the titles for anything relevant, but of course this set is not going to be that easy. There are many inconsistencies in style and era, some books cover the entirety of Kaer Seren's history, some only short periods; some are not exclusive to Kaer Seren but include other schools; some deal exclusively with the history _before_ the branching off of witcher schools. 

It takes him another week of frustration to work his way through every volume that might be relevant. Just like when he was young, after short periods of study his ability to pay attention unhinges itself and suddenly he realises he has read the same sentence five times over and he still has no idea what it says. 

So as Vesemir taught him when he had struggled with schoolwork, he breaks it up. Fifteen minutes reading, fifteen minutes burning off energy. Forms, training, hunt for lunch, check on the horse. Trying to rationalise the dichotomy between his thoughts that if he could just _push through_ and read it all in one sitting it would go faster, and the knowledge that _except it won't,_ because his eyes and his brain will only cooperate for so long, but he wants it _finished_. Frustrated with his own shortcomings, he wishes Eskel were here to do this part.

He wishes Eskel were here, period. Which is annoying.

He finds himself pulling out Eskel's note to moon over every time he sits down to eat, and he's damn well annoyed about that, too.

When he is finally done, his head feeling stuffed full of cotton wool and he's convinced he has missed things, but he has a book of history and three journals in his packs. By ditching most of the rope, he also has room for a number of extra volumes that he thinks Eskel will appreciate, and an ancient, beautifully illustrated beastiary. It's a work of art more than anything functional, and he wonders why it was mixed in with the training materials. 

Before he leaves, Lambert tries to rack his brains for any reason they might need access to the information here. The volumes on witcher creation, he wants _destroyed_. Fucking interfering mages, if anyone found those, they could play a part in recreating mutagens in the future. Even without particular recipes, the processes were important. Lambert tries to burn them, douse them in acid, blow them up, but they survive unscathed thanks to their magic. 

In the end, he uses his remaining explosives together with Aard to bring another wall down on top of the hole where he entered. If Eskel decides they need to come back and finish the job properly, they will bloody well come back and finish the job properly.

Collecting his horse - and the creature is none to enamored with the idea of being put back to work after his holiday - Lambert leads the him back down the switchback path and towards Tansarville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise in hindsight that the title is a bit misleading, I'm so sorry if you were disappointed in the lack of Lambert-trapping.
> 
> Not sorry enough to change it though :D


	22. They remind me of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Eskel have a moment.
> 
> Content notes: minor injuries.

**Jaskier**

He agrees to the curse, but Yennefer decides to hold off. She knows of a mage with a special interest in obscure therianthropies, and wants to do a little more research first. She will also see if there is anything to discover in Lettenhove. Jaskier, of course, cannot go, and if access to Jaskier's family or anyone else in power needs to form part of her search, Yennefer is the only one with that sort of authority. 

Geralt still detests portals, so although Yennefer had portalled north as a matter of urgency, it made Geralt sick and Eskel plans to walk to Tansarville to meet Lambert. Hopefully he can procure horses along the way, and then they will head to the temple of Melitele together. Jaskier can't go into populated areas, but he can keep an eye on their progress from a height, and meet them to camp. 

The day Yennefer, Eskel and Geralt depart, Jaskier hurries to enact his plan. He flies in the opposite direction to his friends, close to the edge of the invisible boundary of his freedom, and lands amongst the trees. Hunting for meals beneath the tree canopy is something of a challenge without the advantages of height and flight speed, and he learns to use his catlike reflexes for the task. 

After a couple of hours, a parent griffin comes to check on him. When he fails to answer a screeched summons, they circle around the place he was last seen. He flaps his wings to draw attention and the older griffin lands, screeching at him a few times before taking off again. He moves a little further out, and a couple of hours later, the same thing happens. He's safe, so he expects that's all they are looking for. 

At night, when he would normally return to the nest, they make multiple efforts to send him back. Screeching, mock attacks to drive him in the direction of the nest, flying back and returning for him a little later. Jaskier doesn't budge.

The second day passes much the same.

The third, he's left in peace until he cruises just above the treeline in search of food. Then, both parents make their way towards him, posturing agressively. He turns to avoid crashing into one of them, and when he doesn't move quickly enough, earns a clawed swipe across the rump. Distracted by the stinging burn in his backside and rivulets of blood dripping down his leg, it takes him a few minutes to realise that the direction he is being herded is _away_ from the aerie. 

_So much for family._

They leave off when he reaches a distance well out from the griffins' home territory, and he flies a little further before circling around to find Yennefer's farm. After a couple of false starts, and one terrified household whose occupants narrowly miss piercing his wings with an arrow, he lands in the yard with a clumsy thud that aggravates his injuries. 

Though Yennefer's questioning and Jaskier's limited responses, he manages to convey to her that everything is fine now and the griffins won't be coming to find him. When she asks if he is sure for the thirdteenth time, he rolls his eyes and turns around to show her the claw marks on his rump where one of the adults had gouged him.

The bleeding has slowed to an oozing trickle, and she insists on cleaning him up. When she offers to heal the injuries, he backs away, growling at her. 

"They're deep. If you're going to fly, they'll keep breaking open," she says in exasperation, and Jaskier growls again. "Ungrateful brat. Fine, it's your ass."

Curling up on the hearth in front of a warm fire, Jaskier sleeps the afternoon away. It's been a moderately traumatic day, and he still hopes to find Eskel tonight wherever the pair of witchers make camp. 

  
Taking leave of Yennefer, he follows the road, watching for the glow of campfires from above. He finds Eskel and Geralt's camp almost half way to Tansarville, and waits until Geralt is asleep before landing on the far side of the fire. 

"Why can I smell blood?" Eskel growls, running his hands over golden fur until he locates Jaskier's injuries.

_Shhh, you're waking Geralt. Freedom achievement unlocked. My no longer being welcome was made very clear._

"These need stitching. Stay here," Eskel orders, moving back to Geralt.

"It's okay, wolf. Everything's fine. Go back to sleep." Jaskier can hear the words, and imagines the tender touches as Eskel says them, and in a way, it reassures him. It hurts, that after everything he's been through over the past couple of years, Geralt can't acknowledge him. But that Eskel can be there for him goes a small way to assauging his distress.

It's a few minutes before Eskel returns with a pouch and a small clay pot in his hands, and he gets to work. Surprisingly gentle, large hands first apply a salve. It stings at first, then eases into a warm tingle, soothing the pain.

"It has an anasaethetic in it," Eskel explains.

_Geralt doesn't have anything like this._

"No, he has some dumbass notion that stoicism is a measure of his worth. Hold still," Eskel says, threading a needle and stitching ragged flesh together. It pulls a little uncomfortably, but it doesn't hurt as Jaskier expects.

 _He needs you,_ Jaskier says, and there's no bite in his words, only gratitude for the bond they share, that Geralt has someone to look out for him.

"We'll make it right, songbird. Whatever it takes. Why the hell didn't Yennefer heal this for you?" Eskel asks, scowling as he packs his tools away, wiping the reamains of the salve off his fingers onto a patch of grass. "You did find her before you came here?"

Jaskier discovers a new skill: he can create a vision of the surrounding environment, and it's easier than making an imaginary one. He pulls Eskel into it.

"Well... she offered..." Jaskier admits, refusing to meet Eskel's eyes.

"You want the scars. Why?" 

"They remind me of you," Jaskier replies, reaching out a tentative hand to touch Eskel's face.

"You're so beautiful, Eskel. Your scars are part of that. Now go, be with Geralt. I'll keep watch, I slept all afternoon. He needs you more than I do." Jaskier tilts his chin over the fire to where Geralt lies sleeping. "Just..." running out of words, Jaskier's hands flutter in agitation. He _does_ want Eskel to stay with him, but Geralt needs him more.

"I'm not sure he does," Eskel says softly, tilting Jaskier's chin up. Eskel is tall, his witchers all are. Even Lambert, as the shortest of the three, is the same height as Jaskier. He looks up, past the forked scars running down Eskel's face, scars that drag his lip up into a permanent sneer that somehow makes him _more_ handsome, and into shining amber eyes, glowing in the soft light of the fire, and _why is it so hot all of a sudden?_

"Eskel..." 

Eskel moves as if time has slowed, giving Jaskier plenty of time to object - _as if_ \- before meeting his softly parted lips in an unbearably gentle kiss. Powerless to prevent his own responses, Jaskier sighs into it, snaking his hands around Eskel's neck and kissing him back. 

"Should've done that a long time ago," Eskel says when he finally pulls away. "Don't fret, songbird. I know you love Geralt. I do too, and you're obviously not bothered by that. We'll get him well first, then we can figure out what this is. Fair?" 

Jaskier, emotions in a turmoil, can only nod, and he lets the vision dissolve before he gets overwhelmed to the point of tears. He nudges Eskel in Geralt's direction. 

The good corner of Eskel's mouth twitches up in a smile and he buries his hand in the griffin's mane. "You think I can sleep _now?"_

_I can't be there for him. He needs you._

  
In the morning, he wakes Eskel just before dawn and flies to Tansarville. The sleepy little hamlet is easy enough to find. Nestled close to the mountain foothills, it serves as a small trading hub for local farmers. From his elevated vantage point, grateful for his eagle's eyesight, Jaskier searches the nearby paths and woods and the road to Kaer Seren for signs of Lambert without success. Either he's already arrived and is waiting somewhere out of sight, or is still on his way. With several days left before Eskel and Geralt will arrive, Jaskier decides to follow the path to Kovir and Kaer Seren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder that this is heading towards a 4-way polycule. I wasn't sure when I started writing, and the tags have been updated to reflect this x


	23. You're not monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier goes looking for Lambert.

**Jaskier**

He makes it all the way to the Griffin keep shortly after noon, and regrets the effort. Although he has been out flying and building strength every day since his first flight, he discovers that the endurance required to travel long distances is _very_ different to the mixture of lazy soaring, play and hunting in the vicinity of one's nest. Still, he's proud of his efforts. He's flown more than a weeks' travel in half a day. 

Lambert's camp is easy to locate, but it looks to have been abandoned at least a week ago, which would put him close to Tansarville by now. 

Curling up in a sheltered hollow, Jaksier sleeps. When he wakes, his wings are stiff, and he spreades them wide in the late afternoon sun to warm up. Flying back to Tansarville, the ache in his wings starts to burn. Each time he stops, the distance he can fly gets shorter, and he needs more time to rest. He could - _he should_ \- stop and recover properly, but he's tired, and lonely, and he wants to see Lambert. 

On the way, he glides down to check any campfires in case they are the witcher's. About three-quarters of the way back to Tansarville, he catches sight of a flash of light in the forest between the road and the mountains, and he dips down to investigate.

Lambert, sword out, and judging by the shapes his mouth is making, swearing loudly, is fighting nekkers. There are already bodies on the ground, and Jaskier counts eleven still standing, two of them the larger, more dangerous fighters.

"Well _FUCK YOU TOO!"_ Lambert screams at him when Jaskier swoops over him, casting Aard to throw the nekkers back and reaching for his crossbow.

 _Oops._ Jaskier mentally kicks himself. _Of course. Lambert doesn't know._ Claws out, he rakes through the necks of several nekkers on the way through, including both warriors, his wings trembling with fatigue. He glides to a land well out of crossbow range, landing a little too quickly. There's no hope he'll be able to take to the air again today. 

He turns to watch Lambert dispatch the remaining nekkers. Job done, Lambert raises his crossbow, stalking towards the griffin with predatory grace. Jaskier scrambles backwards, trying to keep exhausted wings folded against his back so they don't drag through the dirt, trying to figure out a strategy for communicating. Safely. From a distance.

Hiding behind a large tree, he sticks his head out. A crossbow bolt thuds into the earth a few metres away, and he doesn't have long before Lambert is within range. With effort, he drags an uncooperative wing around in front of his eyes and then slowly peeks over the top, as if he is playing peekaboo with a child.

"The fuck?" Lambert says.

Jaskier tries again, and the tip of the crossbow dips towards the ground. Lambert doesn't move any closer, however, so Jaskier tries the same thing he did with Yennefer, and lays down on his stomach.

"Who tamed you, birdie?" Lambert says in wonder. "Better not be a fucking mage around here. And you fucking better not be luring me in so you can bite my arm off, I will crossbow-whip you so hard your traitorous beak falls off."

Jaskier crawls a little closer on his belly, and Lambert, moving slowly, approaches. When the griffin makes no move to attack, he risks reaching out a hand.

"You smell familiar. Like -"

 _It's me Lamb,_ Jaskier says, the moment Lambert touches his beak.

Lambert steps backwards, landing on his ass with a thump.

"How - ?" Lambert asks, Jasker crawls close again, putting a paw on Lambert's leg.

_How am I alive, or how am I talking to you? I don't know. I have to be touching you. Doesn't work with anyone else, just the three of you. Yennefer says something connects us. I can also pull you into a sort of vision so we can talk... I can be me. If that's okay?_

Lambert nods, and a moment later, they're standing on a cliff overlooking the ocean, Jaskier feeling a little smug. They can still hear the wind whispering through the trees in the forest, smell the leaf mould beneath their feet, but the illusion looks real. 

"It's easier to talk like this. I came here, once. Hurting. Geralt..." Jaskier trails off, swallowing, clenching his jaw as he tries not to cry. _Bad choice._ He changes the vision back to the forest they're sitting in.

"Fuck, I'm sorry I'm trying not to... I just. I'm exhausted, and except for talking to Eskel over the last couple of weeks the only human touch I've had since the _first_ time I died was Geralt when he killed me! Twice! And I lived as all kinds monsters and a lot of that was horrible and then Eskel... he... _fuck,_ and Geralt! Geralt won't even acknowledge I'm alive he thinks his mind is cooking up illusions and Yennefer wants to curse me and today I flew all the way to Kaer Seren and back again because I miss you and now I think my wings are going to fall off." Everything pours out in a jumbled torrent of words and emotions.

Instinctively, Lambert holds Jaskier to his chest, his hands in his hair, soothing, stroking his back while the jumbled torrent of words and emotions pour out of Jaskier.

"I thought we'd lost you," Lambert says, when Jaskier finally falls silent. "I cried at your funeral."

"Eskel said you had one. I'm sorry. You cried?"

"Shhh, none of that. It's not your fault. I'd rather grieve and be wrong than lose you. Yes, I cried and if you ever use it against me I'll tie you down next to a fire ants nest and cover you with honey. I wouldn't be here, except for you. I would set the world on fire to have more time with Aiden. Seize the day, Buttercup."

Jaskier snorts. "Can't, no hands. I think Geralt is my fault. I can't get through to him. He thinks I'm dead, my presence is hurting him, and I can't - I can't - "

Lambert holds him, waiting to see if any more words are coming, but Jaskier just sighs into his chest.

"Geralt's always been a bit of an ass. It's not your fault he's so caught up inside his own head."

"I get it. What's happening is hard to believe, but it hurts and I can't _fix it._ You killed me. Thanks, I think. I was a ghoul."

"Ah. So what then, reincarnation? I didn't know that was possible."

"Guess so. Every time I die I come back as something else. This is the first time it hasn't been really gross. Kikimore, cockatrice, ghoul, spider, giant dick..."

"Giant dick?"

"Yeah look, it wasn't _fun_. Eskel cut me in half and I got off on it. I mean, I'm all for consensual kinks, but that wasn't it. I had no control."

"Eskel mentioned a worm, said it dissolved into light or some shit. That was you? Your ghoul had blue eyes."

"I tried not to feed," Jaskier says sadly. "I was so _cold._ I blacked out. I'm probably the reason you were there, I killed a human. Do you know who they were?"

"I don't. Took the contract, didn't ask questions, but kitten it's best if you don't know either. There's no changing what happened. You didn't know. It's terrible, but it's not your _fault."_

"I think I could have guessed that starving myself wouldnt do anything good. Just. The whole idea of eating already-dead people was so horrific. I didn't think it through."

Lambert sits with his back to the tree Jaskier had hidden behind, and pulls Jaskier down next to him, pressing him down until he's lying with his head in Lambert's lap, A heavy hand is placed on Jaskier's shoulder. Jaskier plays with some loose, tattered threads fraying from the knees of Lambert's trousers.

"We've all done things we regret," Lambert says. "Even Geralt. People who call us monsters aren't always wrong. You know about Blaviken?"

Jaskier tenses up, attempting to sit and, to Lambert's amusement, actually growling. _"Yes,_ I know about Blaviken. Everyone does. _Stregobor_ was the monster. _You're not monsters."_

Lambert pushes him back down, a rough, calloused thumb stroking his cheek before coming to rest back on his arm. 

"Well then. Neither are you."

Things are quiet for a while, Jaskier's breathing and heart rate slowing while Lambert sits thinking. The heavy hand on Jaskier's arm, Lambert's warm, safe presence are calming. Jaskier is on the verge of falling asleep when Lambert chuckles.

"Griffin. Of all things. What will happen if you fall asleep like this?"

Jaskier hadn't thought that through.

"I don't know. It hasn't happened before."

"Why don't we head back to camp and test it then," Lambert says. "Just let me collect some trophies for the contract."

Jaskier releases Lambert from his vision and pads after him, past the dead nekkers and along a winding path. Unable to hold his wings up any longer, they drag along the ground, and when he stumbles, Lambert stops. One look at the weary griffin, and he picks him up with a heave and carries him all the way back to camp.

Lulled by the rocking motion of the witcher's gait, Jaskier is asleep before they get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter isn't written yet so there might be a bit of a delay.


	24. You weigh a fucking ton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert and Jaskier
> 
> Brief mention of past Lambert/Aiden.

**Lambert**

Approaching camp, Lambert hears his horse bolt, realising too late that they're upwind, and Jaskier is a griffin. _Fuck all skittish horses._ It wasn't fair of him to judge the beast, it takes training to get them used to the proximity of monsters and monster parts, and he hasn't taken the time. Unwilling to leave Jaskier alone, he kicks his bedroll over to the fire and lays Jaskier down, pulling a blanket over him. Getting the fire going well enough for it to last the remaining handful of hours until dawn, Lambert sits with one hand in Jaskier's soft, feathery mane, and meditates.

When he rises in the morning, he feels unusually well-rested. Meditation is a task he has always struggled with, only using it as a necessity on the path to restore energy. Despite knowing that it works when he is in the right frame of mind, most of the time he can't get past the idea that he is _wasting time,_ rendering the whole exercise frustrating and futile. Last night, instead of his own intrusive thoughts, he saw slow-moving waves of black and red, colours folding in on themselves and making new shapes in mesmerising patterns. He looks at Jaskier thoughtfully.

Gently moving Jaskier's head out of his lap, making sure it is pillowed on the bedroll, Lambert gets up to get the fire going again. _Oats are probably not a suitable Griffin breakfast._ He checks the snares he put out yesterday before his hunt, and there's a pair of rabbits. Of course, he wasn't expecting company, so it won't be enough to feed them both. Resetting the snares, he hooks the rabbits to his belt and holds still, listening carefully for the sounds of animals, small and large. There are some light scuffling sounds off to his left, the songs of small birds in the trees, and then a louder crunch as a larger beast steps on dead wood. Lambert heads off in that direction.

When he returns to camp, Jaskier is still sound asleep, and he has time to clean and dress the rabbits and set them to cooking along with a handful of porridge, leaving the deer for Jaskier. The Griffin wakes with a yawn, sniffing at the air, and starts flapping around awkwardly under the blanket until Lambert puts a hand on his shoulder. 

  
_Lamb. Everything hurts._

"Think maybe you pushed things yesterday. Carried you here, you weigh a fucking ton."

 _I flew all the way to Kaer Seren and back looking for you. I just wanted to see you,_ Jaskier protests.

"Your priorities are fucked up."

 _Accept that I needed your company far more than another night alone and kindly fuck off,_ Jaskier retorts, flapping his wings in annoyance. _Ow, OW. Fuck. I don't think I can fly today._

"You need a couple of days rest. Overworking muscles like that makes them tear. Don't worry, they'll build back stronger. Just don't do shit like that too often. Stay warm, I'll keep the fire going. I might be able to help, if you tell me where the worst of the pain is."

 _Help how?_ Jaskier asks.

"Massage, witcher style. Hungry? Eat first," Lambert says, placing a haunch from the deer on the grass away from the fire. "Wasn't sure if you'd want it skinned or cooked..."

Jaskier tears at the leg with beak and claws, gulpiing down large chunks of meat with the limited finesse afforded by a hard mouth. Lambert watches him in fascination. 

"More?" he asks, when Jaskier has finshed. 

Jaskier squawks his agreement, but heads to the carcasse of the deer himself, expertly snipping off another leg with his sharp beak and tearing at the flesh. 

"Here, give me the bones when you're done. There's still a bit of meat on that, I can roast it by the fire and make soup tonight."

Jaskier drops one of the bones by the fire, but takes the other to crack and chew on himself.

When Lambert has finished his own meal, he stands over Jaskier, trying to figure out the best way to access the muscle groups he needs to work on. 

"Lie on your side for me?"

Jaskier does, and his lower wing extends out, getting in the way. Lambert sighs.

"Jask, if I'm gonna do this you'll have to lie on your belly while I straddle you. I won't put my weight on you but it's still going to be a bit intimate. Consent?"

 _Granted._ Jaskier sounds surprised. _Thank you for asking._

"It's gonna hurt, kitten. Tell me if it gets too much. Talk to me. Tell me everything, including how you got those scrapes on your ass. It's gonna look just like Eskel's face when they heal up."

Lambert kneels over Jaskier's back, behind his wings and slightly forward of the injuries on his rump, and starts working with his hands. Gently at first - griffin anatomy is different to a human's, and he has to figure out where the relevant muscle groups are and where Jaskier is hurting the most. After ten minutes of careful prodding while Jaskier chatters away, he gets to work. 

After another ten, Jaskier interrupts him anxiously. _Lambert. I need you to stop._

Lambert stops. "What's wrong? Too rough?"

 _Not... exactly?_ Jaskier replies, sounding evasive. There's a tang in the air that Lambert doesn't recognise, and the griffin's whole body has tensed up.

"Talk to me, Buttercup," Lambert insists.

Jaskier's distress increases. _I'm just. It hurts, but... it's good hurt. Lamb... I'm hard. Please stop._

At that, Lambert feels a stirring in his own groin, fuck, and moves himself off the top of Jaskier in a hurry.

"Don't apologise, it happens. And you're lying on your cock. I don't even have that excuse." 

_You?_

Lambert raps his knuckles on Jaskier's head. "Let me in. I wanna talk about this."

He finds himself back in a vision, campfire crackling nearby. Jaskier is sitting cross-legged on the bedroll, and he has the blanket pulled around his shoulders. His head is bowed, as if he's done something shameful.

"This is about more than one erection, isn't it. What's going on?"

Jaskier looks up, and his expression is troubled. "Eskel kissed me. I don't know what to do with that. Lamb I just need... I just... this... it's been so long since _people,_ and things are all kinds of fucked up right now and I died _so many times,_ and Geralt is a mess because of me and I don't know if we can help him and it's _too much_. I just... it's too much."

"And now, on top of everything else, I'm worried about my reaction to you. Lamb, it was good. Too good. And more than just the touch, the pain, its... _you._ And I'm scared, and I can't deal with it right now."

Dumbstruck, Lambert is still stuck on _Eskel kissed me,_ and he's not sure if that hurts, or... something else, given his own response to Jaskier's declaration earlier. He pushes his thoughts aside to worry about later.

"Jaskier, we all care about you. Eskel's timing is fucked up, but he's having his own mid-life crisis right now and the whole situation with Geralt isn't helping. He wouldn't hurt you on purpose. He'd do anything to protect you, even if that's from himself. And... truthfully, so would I. You want me to punch him?"

"Maybe," Jaskier says miserably. "No. Please hold me. I don't know what I want. I don't know what I need, I just... I want to feel safe for a while. Please make me feel safe."

Picking up the blanket, Lambert wraps it around Jaskier, lying him down on his side and tucking him into the bedroll. Lying down behind him, he wraps his arms around the other man, relying on the weight of his arms to provide enough pressure for Jaskier to feel safe. He doesn't pet, or stroke, or press his nose into Jaskier's neck to breathe in his scent the way he wants to, he just tries to give the bard what he needs.

"This okay?" he asks.

Slowly, Jaskier relaxes in his arms, and it's several long minutes before he responds.

"Yes. Thank you."

Lambert had wondered yesterday what would happen if they both fell asleep in Jaskier's vision. As Jaskier's breathing evens out, becoming slower and deeper as he drifts off to oblivion, Lambert lets his own mind do the same.

Swirling red and black, the colours oozing and merging and separating again like oil on water. Geralt wades out of the darkness, sending ripples through the mesmerizing colours, sharp and dissonant. 'Geralt stop, it's me,' Jaskier's melodious voice echoes from nowhere before Geralt's sword moves as though through liquid amber, slow but impossible to stop. _'Geralt, no!'_ and Geralt disappears. 

A lute spins slowly in the air, playing itself, a beautiful, haunting melody, but as it comes into focus the notes turn discordant and the hand playing it hesitates, trying to find the right string, the right note. Lambert feels frustration emanating from around the instrument and tears fall from nowhere, splatting heavily onto the timber. _'Why can't I remember the notes?'_

"Jaskier," Lambert says. "Buttercup. You're dreaming."

'Lambert?' An amorphous shape appears in front of him. That makes sense. It's Jaskier's dream, he can't see himself. A hand reaches out to Lambert's face, becoming more tangible as it does so. _'Lambert. Are you real?'_

The shape wraps itself around him, squeezing tightly. Colours swirl like smoke, and Lambert remembers nothing else.

When he wakes, he's curled around a purring griffin. He stretches the kinks out, keeping one hand in contact with Jaskier's rumbling chest. It's different to the way Aiden purred, Aiden's wasn't as loud or as rich with tone, and he let himself only rarely, when he felt safe, and Lambert smiles at the bittersweet memories. He doesn't realise there's a tear snaking its way down his cheek until Jaskier pushes close. _Lamb. Did I upset you?_

Lambert quells his instinct to run, reminds himself that Jaskier won't judge, has seen him in far worse condition and bullied him into letting himself be loved anyway. After all these years, running is still his first impulse. He wraps his arms around Jaskier's neck. "No. Not you. Never you. You were purring. Aiden could purr too. I was just. I still miss him. Every day. How are you feeling?"

 _Better. More clear-headed. Still a bit jittery. I think the exhaustion made it feel worse._

"You've been through a lot, don't sell yourself short. You remember your dreams?"

_I... a... bit? I was trying to play the lute but couldn't get the strings right. Then you were there. You told me I was dreaming, after that I don't remember anything. Were you in my dream?_

Lambert nods. "Your... whatever this telepathic power is. Yeah. Look, when we got back last night, my horse bolted. You be okay for a bit if I try to find it? There's the rest of the deer if you get hungry. I won't go more than an hour away. If he's gone, he's gone."

 _Why didn't you catch him when he ran?_ Jaskier asks.

"It was past the middle of the night, I'd just fought off seventeen nekkers and a fucking royal griffin, befriended him and then carried him back to camp, the lazy fuck. I didn't want to leave you alone. Now are you okay if I go, or not? you should be safe here, even injured, apex predator and all. Don't be an ass about it, if you want me to stay I will. I don't want to leave you if you're still feeling raw. It's just a horse."

 _I helped, asshole. Find your horse, I'll be fine for a couple of hours._ Jaskier darts his tongue out to lick the back of Lambert's hand.

 _"You_ are disgusting," Lambert says, but he's smiling, and he ruffles Jaskier's mane. "It's warm enough without the fire for a bit. I'll bring back more food, you probably won't be much good for hunting tomorrow, either.

_Wings feel much better. Thank you. Sorry I made it weird._

"You didn't. Friends first, Buttercup. _Always."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> having trouble getting the next chapter to cooperate so if it's slow its' because I keep re-writing it :P
> 
> Size context: I did do a bit of research into lion and eagle maturity and then threw it all out the window because griffin-Jaskier would have been too small and I couldn't make him older without messing other things up. At this point, put him between cub- and adolescent lion size. Lambert can carry him, but he IS an armful.


	25. While the day's still warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I might be starting to regret the shorter chapters, because this is going to have SO MANY.
> 
> Anyway, have a little update. Idk, they keep having feelings.

**Jaskier**

After watching Lambert leave on stealthy, soundless witcher-feet, Jaskier curls up around himself, trying to find a comfortable position for the ache in his wings. They're no longer truly painful, but the ache drags at him. Sitting alone with his thoughts, he worries about the way he responded to Eskel's kiss, and his response to Lambert during the massage.

About Lambert's response to him.

About love, and friendship, and Geralt, and for all his decades of experience, the courtly affairs, the lovers from every walk of life from whores to blacksmiths to _queens, for fuck's sake, why is this the most difficult?_ Standing up again, Jaskier paces the camp restlessly. He might have rendered his wings useless for a few days, but his feet and his legs are fine. He looks up to the clear sky. Lambert was right, it is warm enough without the fire. Nights are still cold, but the midday sun on his wings is warm and soothing, and Jaskier wishes he had the freedom to fly today. 

His belly starts to rumble, so he pads over to the remains of the deer, flipping it over to get to its other legs. Hunger assauged, he considers Lambert's stomach. Witcher mutations mean they can control their metabolism to survive on little, but they _thrive_ on plenty so he searches for small animals, hunting close to camp without success.

He collects some wood for the fire instead, carting back one or two sticks at a time in his beak. Perhaps he can forage? Griffins don't eat vegetables or need herbs, but witchers do, and Lambert had mentioned soup. Without straying far from camp, he inspects herbs, snipping a few off at the base of a branch so he can carry them easily. He digs for wild roots and finds some mushrooms that he recognises as edible. He stares at a cluster of familiar-looking nightshade leaves in surprise and tugs at them skeptically, unearthing, of all things, a number of small potatoes. He carries those back, too. 

By the time Lambert returns with the horse - upwind for the horse's benefit, this time - Jaskier is covered in dirt and sweat, but he has a tidy pile of firewood collected, as well as several useful herbs for potions, some greens and the other vegetables. Lambert ties the horse to a tree, close enough to camp that he can adjust to the smell of griffin, hopefully without being too spooked by it again. Since they'll be here for a couple more days, there's a chance he can desensitise the creature.

Lambert won't meet his eyes. "Jaskier... thank you."

_It's hard to hunt for myself, without flying. I was stuck with just my own thoughts in my head, so I went to do something useful to keep busy. It's not like I can just sit here and compose or write or play music any more. Lamb, what's wrong? It's nothing I haven't done travelling with you before. Are you upset about this morning?_

"No," Lambert says instantly. Too quickly.

"Maybe," he corrects himself. "Can't changed what happened just... it's added to the weight you carry. And I still love Aiden. I don't know why I responded to you like that."

And just like that, Jaskier's need to reassure Lambert that it was okay - because it _is_ okay - makes him realise that doesn't matter what else happens, with Lambert or with Eskel. They are _his,_ just like Geralt is, and he loves them all. 

_I love you,_ Jaskier blurts out in absolute contradiction to the way he'd intended to reassure the witcher.

Lambert looks stricken.

_Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't mean it quite like that. Lamb, I do. I love you. With all my heart. I feel safe with you. You anchor me. You let me make my own decisions no matter how dangerous or impulsive they are, hell more often than not you're right there with me while Eskel or Geralt would hold me back. I sleep better when you're near, and I want you in my life, but know that most of all I love you as my friend. I know how much you loved Aiden. Love him still. I would never try to intrude on that. Friends first. Just like you said._

"But," Lambert says, looking slightly less panicked but still troubled, "I love Aiden."

_I know, dear heart. You also love Geralt, and Eskel. Maybe not in the same way, but love is not a finite resource. A parent doesn't have to ration their love for their children when they have more than one, there's no limit on how many people you can care about, or how much. And you know, it's not really... common for men who aren't lovers to share a bed. I've kissed you, and held you while you grieved. Maybe it's platonic, maybe not, but I do love you._

"You love Geralt," Lambert says stubbornly, but for all his resistance, he hasn't moved his hand from Jaskier's mane.

_I do. And I also love you. Eskel too. Is that wrong? I don't think it is, I can't help the way I feel._

"I did," Lambert says softly, his hand clenching in Jaskier's feathers.

_Did what?_

"Love. Eskel. And Geralt, I guess, but - Eskel, when I was younger. Our instructors drove a wedge between us. Arguably to keep us safe on the path, no emotional attachments, you know? But really, it was to keep us under control. Witchers aren't - _weren't_ \- supposed to want things, have minds of our own. I rebelled. Eskel believed. Geralt sort of... withdrew, he was always a bit aloof. I used to follow Eskel around like a puppy, but he always kept some distance. He looked out for me, but he _loved_ Geralt. They tore the three of us apart. My anger, Eskel's dedication, Geralt's isolation. They used it against us. I've never forgiven them for that."

_Never forgiven who? Your mentors, or your brothers?_

"Either," Lambert admits. "Aiden... they didn't understand that, either. I asked Geralt to help me, he refused. You were the first person to just... accept."

_I think Eskel's come around,_ Jaskier says dryly, and Lambert snorts.

"About fucking time. He was such a golden child. I was older, when I came to Kaer Morhen. Already seen some shit. Knew what abuse looked like. Started angry, finished angry. Eskel never knew anything else, he bought the lies they sold us. Most of them did, even after so many of their friends died in the trials. They invested so much into believing the lies that they couldn't admit they were wrong."

_And you've just... waited?_

"I tried to tell them. Eskel wouldn't listen. Geralt knew, but didn't care. Kept getting caught up in his own causes. Could've gotten out I guess, but where would I go? What else would I do? People aren't real accepting, and I'd have lost the only family I knew."

_Sometimes we need to make our own family. I choose you, Lamb._

Burying his face in Jaskier's mane, Lambert hums. 

"You could do with a bath. There's a stream nearby. Unless griffins hate water and bathe like cats? Which would be disgusting and if you try to give me a cat bath, I will cut you."

_Bird tongue, cat fur. No. A swim sounds good. Lead the way, my good sir._

Lambert eyes the pile of wood.

"I'll get the soup cooking first. Do you think you could fetch me a pot of water?"

Lambert picks up the cooking pot, which has a handle Jaskier can manage in his beak, and points the way to the nearest water source. Jaskier runs there, to find a stream that feeds into a crystal-clear spring, the banks paved with river stones. There are fish darting about in the water, and he thinks back to his fish-spearing kikimore days. Wouldn't be as easy with such a different body structure, but he finds a part of the river where the water is deep close to the bank and waits, watching. A few fish swim close, but dart away again, so he tips some rocks over to find bugs to use for bait, flicking them into the water with a paw. The next time a fish comes close, he slams it against a tree root, speared on his claws, and drags it out. 

He only manages to catch one more, and places both in the pot along with some water to carry back to Lambert. Lambert has peeled the potatoes with his knife, mushrooms chopped and ready. 

"What took you so long? I was about to come looking... oh," Lambert says, eyes lighting up at Jaskier's offering. "I can put those in the soup?"

_Yes, I can catch more for me while we swim. I'll get some clean water too,_ Jaskier says, nudging against his leg. _You can use this to clean stuff or whatever, I'll be faster this time._

Nodding, Lambert dumps the water into a bowl, and Jaskier trots back to the spring. He walks slower on the return, trying not to lose too much of the clean water. 

Tipping out the excess water into his canteen, Lambert adds a couple of cracked, roasted bones from the deer to the pot. A handful of herbs and spices from his pack, and Jaskier thinks it already smells wonderful. The fish he sets on sticks to cook by the fire, easier to pick bits of cooked meat off to add to the soup than to scale and prepare it raw. Tastier, too. Lambert puts the lid on the pot so it doesn' t dry out while they bathe, and collects his shaving kit and soap along with a small bundle of clothing to wash. 

"Come on then," he says to Jaskier. "While the day's still warm."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk why these two are good for each other, they just are. I did not have Jaskier/Lambert in mind as a specific pairing when I started, outside perhaps as part of a polycule.
> 
> But.
> 
> Put them together and they just... take on a life of their own. 
> 
> Yell at me if you like, I'm not sorry.


	26. How long have you been a griffin?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief mention of past suicidal thoughts in the context of grief.

**Lambert**

Lambert keeps his hand in Jaskier's mane so they can talk while they walk, and if he wonders what it would be like to be holding hands instead, well, he doesn't have to admit that to anyone, including himself. Jaskier sometimes brushes against his leg, keeping close. His head is just at a height where Lambert doesn't have to stoop for his fingers to reach comfortably, and it won't be long before he can rest his hand on his shoulder instead. 

"Jaskier," Lambert says suddenly, frowning. "How long have you been a griffin?"

_Hatched in winter. I think, I mean there was snow. But mountains, right? Some places it snows a lot. Why?_

"The thing is... the magic that happens when you die. Last time was early winter. _Griffins don't grow that fast._ Was there another griffin cub? Sometimes griffins hatch more than one.

 _One other_.

"Were you larger than the other one? Growing faster?"

_A bit, I guess. Yeah. Didn't really pay much attention. Why?_

"Because you shouldn't have more than six months' growth. I'd put you at more than a year old. In griffin terms, around teenager age. Puberty, growth spurts, etcetera."

_Do I want to know how you know that?_

"Witcher stuff. Biology, zoology, monster-ology." Lambert changes his voice to mimic that of a long-dead instructor. _'Chemical composition, excretions, biological changes, body parts and organs are relevant for harvesting ingredients that will contribute to your income, and aid in crafting potions that help you survive'_."

 _And do you plan to harvest my parts, dear Lambert?_ Jaskier teases.

 _"My point_ is that your body will be doing some shitty things to you. Teenager things. Involving hormones. _Rapidly."_

The griffin stopped, one foot waving a little comically in the air. 

_Second puberty? Is this about this morning?_

"In part. Your body's sort of geared for 'horny' right now, it's nothing to be ashamed of. But also, you shouldn't be growing this fast."

Jaskier places his paw back on the ground.

_And you, Lamb? You responded too, and you're not teenage hormone anything._

"Yeah well, I don't have an excuse, but I don't - "

_Lamb, I'm seventy years old, nearly, and I'm a BARD. I think I know how to separate my affections from my dick by now. The way I feel about you isn't new. I fucked up, assuming Geralt knew how I felt. I'm not going to make that mistake again. I want to be able to talk about things. Let's swim first, then we can discuss it._

Shaking his mane free of Lambert's hand, Jaskier races ahead, ploughing his way into the water. Lambert, in spite of his reservations, races after him, shedding clothes and dumping them on a grassy hill. The rocky pool has its own waterfall, spring rains feeding the river so that it flows smoothly, the water clear and cold and fresh. Hoping the pool eroded by the fall of water is deep, Lambert dives down to check, then scales the rocks next to the waterfall to the very top. 

Jaskier finds that if he spreads his wings across the top of the water, he can float comfortably. It puts pressure on the ache, but not so much as to be fatiguing, and he watches Lambert's antics from a distance.

Leaping from the highest point, Lambert somersaults down into the pool with a shout, striking the surface curled into a ball that creates a crest of water that thoroughly douses Jaskier and leaves the entire pool rocking. A few strong strokes bring a grinning Lambert close, and Jaskier licks his face with as wet a tongue as he can muster in retaliation. 

Lambert ducks under the surface to rinse off, then hauls himself out of the water and up the bank to grab his washing, giving his ass a shake when he feels the bard ogling it behind him. Jaskier loses his balance, falling back into the water with a splash.

Jaskier catches some more fish while Lambert does his washing. He discovers that if he stands still, occasionally a fish will swim close. A quick snap of his beak, and it's caught before it can dart away. When he's eaten his fill, he joins Lambert again, stretching out on the grass just as Lambert is laying clothes across branches to dry. Lambert flops down on the ground next to him.

"You wanted to talk."

_I did. Like this, or...?_

"Your choice."

"I miss being human," Jaskier says. They are lying close to each other, flat on their backs, warm in the afternoon sun. "Human hands, human arms, human touch..."

"Buttercup, you need something - anything - just ask," Lambert says. He reaches out to take Jaskier's hand in his and giving it a squeeze. "You've been through hell. I want to help."

"I can't do this all the time, we have to be still," Jaskier says with a sigh.

"No. But for a time," Lambert says. "Is this okay? Does it feel as real to you as it does to me?"

"Yes. Thank you. You're still worried about this morning, aren't you?"

"It doesn't have to mean anything, you know," Jaskier adds when Lambert doesn't respond.

"What if it does?" Lambert says, and he knows there's a hint of panic in his voice.

"Then it doesn't have to _change_ anything. You can acknowledge it, and never do anything about it. I won't judge you for that. I won't love you any less. I mean fuck, _I'm_ not ready to do anything about it, my head is too full of other stuff right now. We talk about it, decide what the boundaries are, talk about it again, adjust as needed."

"Boundaries. Okay. Yeah. I can do that. Do I have to stop holding your hand?"

"No, darling. We get to set them. I would be very sad, if you stopped holding my hand."

"Good." Lambert feels the tightness in his chest ease. He can have feelings. He doesn't have to act on them. Not yet, or not ever. Nothing has to change. "What do you mean, not new?"

"What, the way I feel about you? It's not. It's not... I don't know, when it became more than... like. But it's not new, in fact... oh. Lamb, there's something I really should tell you, about when I came to find you, after Aiden died. I knew, before I knew."

"You what?"

"I felt it," Jaskier says.

"Felt what?"

"Your grief. It started a week before I knew Aiden was dead. It's why I had to find you."

  
_Jaskier wakes late morning with a searing pain in his chest, gasping for breath, tears streaming down his cheeks. Sitting up, he waits for whatever has caused his nightmare to abate._

_It doesn't._

_The innkeeper gives him directions to a healer, and on the way there gets turned around in unfamiliar streets, soon noticing a strange pattern. It hurts less if he walks a little south of directly west. The pain escalates if he moves in the opposite direction._

_The healer, of course, is in the opposite direction. Jaskier pushes through the pain to find them._

_'Nothing physically wrong,' was the verdict. 'Maybe a curse? Wouldn't follow it, if I were you.'_

_Jaskier doesn't seem to have much choice. He tries to resist, but after a week he's moved from Tretegor to to the village of Guamez. Which is fine, really, because he meets up with Geralt, as planned, at the inn in Guamez. Well, not exactly as planned. Geralt had left word for him in Tretegor, changing said plans, so it was a new plan. Still, a plan._

_Before he can ask for help, before he can event get a word in edgewise, for once in his life Geralt talks first, telling him he'd run into Lambert, puzzling over Lambert's obsession with Aiden's death._

_'Aiden's dead?' Jaskier had asked, almost shouting in his panic. 'Where the fuck is Lambert?'_

_He's not sure why he asked, really. He has a feeling he already knows the answer._

_'Left him in Novigrad?' Geralt replied, a look of shock passing across his face as Jaskier picks up his lute and pack and leaves again immediately, without so much as a goodbye._

_He doesn't know how. He doesn't know why. He just knows he needs to find Lambert._

_For another week, moving much faster now that he's chasing instead of resisting, he follows the pull all the way to Oxenfurt. He finds the youngest witcher locked in a cell of the city guards, after having started a brawl in a drunken, grief-fuelled rage._

"Fortunate it was Oxenfurt, really, Jaskier muses. "I might not have been able to get you out, otherwise."

"Wouldn't've cared, I wanted to die. You _felt it?"_ Lambert says, repeating Jaskier's words. "You never said anything?"

"You sort of had other concerns at the time," Jaskier replies gently. "I don't know. It obviously wasn't a curse, it was _you_. This thing, whatever connects us, like Yenn said? What if it predates my death? What if that compulsion to find you was the same thing?"

"Is that the only time it's happened?"

"One, maybe two other times. Geralt lashed out at me once, badly. But that hurt and I was heartbroken, so I'm not sure. Then there was the thing with the pitchfork in Rivia. It was different. Hollow. But Ciri spirited him away, Geralt was _gone_. There was nowhere to look. It's never happened with Eskel."

Lambert hums. "You are full of mysteries today, aren't you?"

"I wish I knew what's going on, Lamb. I don't like not knowing."

"We'll figure it out. We're good at that shit."

Jaskier imagines a velvet cushion, and smacks Lambert in the face with it. _"Geralt_ was good at that shit."

"Yeah, well. We'll get him back too. We have a witch."

  
They spend two more full days at their campsite, waiting for Jaskier's wings to recover enough to fly short distances. Swimming, fishing, hunting and talking, it's almost idyllic, and they relax into each others' companionship. At nights they fall asleep, dreaming together, and no matter how they arrange themselves when they lie down, when Lambert wakes up in the morning he invariably wakes to a purring griffin, a mouth full of feathers and limbs of all shapes tangled around him.

Lambert runs off steam climbing trees and rocks and waterfalls, Jaskier sometimes meeting him at the top, much to Lambert's amusement.

"How am I supposed to run away, if you can just follow me?" he grumbles when Jaskier nudges his leg.

 _I'll leave if you want,_ Jaskier offers.

"I don't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Lambert is Paying Attention.
> 
> I'm a slow writer, and this chapter was A Challenge that I rewrote about five times. BUT. Bonus level: I got some future snippets written while I was butting heads with this. I really need to go do some work on the other fic too, and I think busy is about to take over my life again, so heads up for delays all round.


	27. Come and get them yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to throw them back together.  
> CW's: 'underage' griffin discussion.

**Eskel**

On the way to Tansarville, Eskel loses Geralt and has to double back to look for him. 

Twice. 

The first time, he finds him perusing the noticeboard in a village, but the second Geralt has found himself a nest of drowners to play with. 

The next day, Eskel nags a farmer until he sells them another Roach. He chooses well, and gets a good price: the horse is too light for solid farm work, and she is fast on her feet. And she bites. Perfect for a witcher, perfect for Geralt in particular, and Roaches are _much_ easier to track down than silent Geralts. 

He manages not to lose Geralt again.

When they reach Tansarville, Eskel checks at the inn for news of Lambert, then has to drag Geralt away from the noticeboard when someone growls about already having a witcher through for the only contract going, they can _leave_. He skirts the town looking for any indication that their friends are nearby. Finding a likely campsite, far enough from town not to be harrassed by townsfolk, far enough away for Jaskier to find and join them, they set up to wait.

  
Eskel is almost falling asleep in front of the fire when he hears Lambert's voice in the distance, taking part in a very one-sided conversation.

"It's not your fault. No, I'm not going to fucking leave you on your own, if Geralt can't get his fucking shit together, Eskel can stay with him and I'll stay with you... Yeah, but if I stay with Geralt I'm going to fucking punch him. Probably fucking punch them both."

"What offense have I committed?" Eskel asks, knowing that his voice will carry.

"You upset him! He's trying to deal with all the shit going on right now and you fucking _kissed_ him."

"Oh."

"Yes, fucking oh."

"He's with you?" Eskel asks.

"Who the fuck do you think I'm talking to, a wraith?"

"We have some food left, if you're hungry."

Hesitation, and a soft sigh crosses the distance. "No. It hurts him, Eskel. Hurting Geralt. He doesn't want to come. Hey. It's okay. _It's not your fault."_ The last, clearly directed to Jaskier.

Eskel can just make the pair out, cresting a hill in the watery moonlight, and he sighs sadly. 

"Did you find anything?"

"Maybe. I have a book of history and some journals, you can fucking look yourself."

"Will you bring them for me?"

"No. I'm not going to leave Jaskier alone. Come and get them yourself when the other fuckhead's asleep. We'll camp here. Bring food."

  
It's late, by the time he approaches their camp. Jaskier's golden fur shines in the firelight, his wings furled tightly behind his back. He's still awake, but barely - eyes drooping sleepily while Lambert sits next to him, stroking his mane.

Lambert looks... relaxed. _Doting_.

Eskel feels his heart catch in his chest, and he stops for a moment, just to watch them. He rarely gets to see Lambert like this, without his defenses up. Even at home - well. His home was never home for Lambert, he reminds himself again. Their scents intertwine, Jaskier's buttercups and honey complementing Lambert's faint buttery rum.

Neither moves to greet him and Eskel sits on the ground next to them, raising an eyebrow when Lambert's jaw tightens.

"Don't push him," Lambert says softly, loud enough for Jaskier to hear. The griffin blinks, owlish in his sleepy state, and moves to rest his head in Lambert's lap, seeking more attention. Lambert _obliges,_ the tension at Eskel's presence easing again, and Eskel suddenly has no idea which one of them is comforting the other.

 _Interesting_.

"So, what did you find?" Eskel asks, turning his attention to business.

"Hello Lambert. Nice to see you survived the deadly castle, Lambert. _I missed you, Lambert,"_ Lambert says, and instead of the usual snark, he just sounds... tired. Eskel winces, and Lambert points to a pile of books set on the ground nearby.

Eskel flicks through the selection, putting the relevant ones aside. He runs his hands over the largest before picking it up in wonder. Not exactly a bestiary - if it is, it's a mockery of one. It's a whimsical, romanticised representation of the masters of the old fairytales, brilliantly coloured and preserved with magic. The cover is a deep mahogany leather, tooled and gilded with elaborate designs. He wonders why Lambert brought it with him. 

"For you. Thought you would like it," Lambert says, his expression unreadable.

"You did good, Lamb. It's beautiful. Thank you. I'll take the others to study."

Lambert gives him a nod. "Eskel, something doesn't add up."

"What's that?"

"Jaskier's too old. He hatched at the start of winter, when... when we had his funeral, actually. But look at him, he has at least a year in growth."

Eskel examines the griffin with a careful eye. "Eighteen months, I'd say. And he's had a growth spurt in the last week..."

Jaskier puts a paw on Eskel's leg. _I'm horny all the fucking time, Lambert says I get to do puberty again._

Eskel chokes, staring at him for a moment before getting abruptly to his feet and stalking away, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. Jaskier looks at Lambert, eyes questioning. 

"Eskel's thought process just went from 'intelligent monster is horny' to 'I want to fuck that' to 'what the fuck he's not an adult' in under a second," Lambert explains, loud enough for Eskel to hear even if he didn't have witcher hearing.

"Hang on, he's not done yet, it's my fault," Lambert adds.

Eskel turns back to the pair, roaring. _"LAMBERT!"_

"I'm not fucking the teenage griffin, Eskel," Lambert says calmly. And he is calm, enough to make Eskel hesitate. He also sounds a little amused, but he _smells_ hurt, and the faint, acrid stench of burnt toast makes Eskel wince.

He looks from Lambert to the griffin and back again, caught between fury and concern, afraid that he's reacted badly. But they haven't stopped touching, not since he arrived. They are curled around each other like lovers, and they smell overwhelmingly of each other.

 _"Jaskier_ says he's not a fucking teenager," Lambert adds.

"But - you haven't stopped touching, you look..."

"For fuck's sake, use your fucking nose, Eskel."

_"You smell like each other!"_

"Like sex?"

Eskel frowns. Admittedly, they do not. They smell like each other, like sweat, and travel, and home. "No..."

"Then fuck off. You're the one who kissed him, dipshit. He's hurting, and Geralt is fucking him over, and he's _not ready._ Neither the fuck am I. But he's also right, he is not a teenager, and it's _not his fault_ he's stuck in a younger body. Godsdammit, get your ass over here."

Eskel plonks himself down on the ground next to Lambert, wary and reluctant now that he's managed to piss everybody off. He reaches a hand out to Lambert in truce, surprised when Lambert takes it.

"Just stop being such a fucking control freak," Lambert says. "He needs us. _I need us."_


	28. I miss you two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oops, Eskel is having a sad.

**Jaskier**

  
The next three weeks pass without anything particularly eventful happening. Lambert gives Eskel his horse so that Eskel and Geralt can make better time getting to the temple of Melitele, and follows on foot. Jaskier, capable of travelling much faster than anyone else, hunts for them all, dropping dinner off for Eskel and Geralt when they make camp at nightfall, then returning to Lambert to sleep. He uses the time to build his strength, catching up with Eskel and Geralt in the morning, flying ahead until he starts to tire, pushing himself a little further each day, then back to Lambert to walk with him if the road is quiet, or perhaps taking a nap. 

Flying is a joy in and of itself, but he is also very much enjoying his eyesight in this form. Being able to hover at such a distance that the witchers can't sense him is new, and it feels strangely powerful, to be _better_ than them at something. Eskel spends time flicking through his books while he rides, and Jaskier can even make out some of the words written on the pages. 

For every night that he spends curled up with Lambert to sleep, safe and warm, his sense of security increases. Whatever happens with Geralt, this is his _family_ now. If they - if the _temple_ can't help Geralt, they will figure something else out, but no matter what else happens, Lambert and Eskel won't abandon him. Whatever happens, he knows that Lambert will stand by him. 

He has to fly a little further each morning and night to reach Eskel and Geralt, but as the distance between them increases, so too does time ease the turmoil in his mind. He feels less fragile, less breakable, his guilt over Geralt's plight easing. He might have been the catalyst, but the same thing would likely have happened with Eskel's death, and that isn't an event Jaskier wants to think about.

The day Eskel and Geralt approach the temple, it takes Jaskier an hour to reach them. Eskel waves at Jaskier to get his attention, and lets Geralt wander ahead. Jaskier lands far enough away for Eskel to secure his horse and meet him on foot. 

"You've grown again," Eskel observes as he approaches, reaching out a hand to Jaskier. Jaskier gives the proffered hand an affectionate bump, and is considering jumping up to knock Eskel over when Eskel drops to his knees and pulls Jaskier's head to his chest in a prolonged hug. 

"I miss you two," he whispers, his voice sounding ragged. 

_We're looking after each other. We're fine. Lambert's about three days behind you._

"I don't know if - what - they'll need at the temple. What if they need you?"

_I don't want to leave Lambert. But I can check in with you each morning, stay for the day if you need me to. Where can you meet me?_

"The mountain side of the temple," Eskel says, pointing to the south-east. "There's a gate in the eastern wall that leads into a forest, meet me outside. Stay away from the famland, Folks around here'll put a price on your head before you've even had a look at their livestock."

 _I wouldn't -_ Jaskier starts.

"Jaskier, you dropped a _sheep_ on us three days ago. It wasn't wild." 

_Okay but, BUT, and this is important, a group of farmers were being VERY mean to Lambert! One of them had a PITCHFORK! I had to do something. Besides, then they gave him a contract on me. AND paid him upfront!_

Eskel groans. "Whose brilliant idea was it to let you two team up? Be careful. Please? Humans can be monsters too. We can't... _I can't..._ lose you again."

Jaskier nuzzles into Eskel's neck. _No more sheep. I'll be careful, Eskel. I promise. Have you learned anything from your books?_

"Yeah, a bit. The griffin - the witcher griffin, Raven. He loved someone, and lost them. The grief put him into some kind of dissociative state. They didn't try to fix it, they just... they tried. _They tried..."_

 _They tried to do it to others, didn't they?_ Jaskier surmises. _Geralt is compliant._

Eskel nods, mouth drawn down in a bitter frown. He glances up the road in the direction Geralt had gone.

_Go, catch up to him. I'll fly ahead, make sure he's there before I head back. Just a few more days, Eskel, then Lambert will be here too._

Eskel nods his appreciation, and with one last, desperate hug for Jaskier, he collects his horse and follows after Geralt. 

Jaskier takes to the air, watching from a height to make sure Eskel catches up to the white-haired witcher before he returns to Lambert. 

On his way back, there's a farm, and Jaskier gets a very bad idea. _Sheep. I only promised Eskel no sheep. And that I'd be careful. Eskel didn't say anything about chickens._ The farmer is working in a distant field, he won't even see Jaskier, he'll just be one short next time he counts chickens. Just this once.

Swooping down, Jaskier plucks an oblivious chicken from its foraging and quickly makes his way back up to a distant height. There's no alarm raised, nobody else around for miles, and they're far enough away from the temple that it wouldn't be a problem even if a bounty _was_ put on his head.

Feeling smug, he returns to Lambert with his prize. 

"You'd better hope nobody sees me with this, they'll blame _me_ for stealing it," Lambert says.

_Yes, but Eskel told me not to and... it... just made it that much more tempting._

Lambert laughs, long and loud. His eyes are bright, his fondness for Jaskier bursting through, In that moment, Jaskier wished for his human form back more strongly than ever. 

_Gods, Lamb. You're so fucking beautiful._

Lambert stops walking, and the hand in Jaskier's mane squeezes with gentle affection. "Hey. Lets stop early tonight."

_Let's stop now, sure. Cook the chicken, but I don't think you're going to want to stop for long. I have news from Eskel._

"Geralt?"

_Geralt's fine - well, the same. Eskel found something in his research._

"Hmm," Lambert says, looking at Jaskier with one eyebrow raised. "Ever seen Eskel cook a chicken with Igni?"

Lambert stops at a large tree by the side of the road, the grass long enough to hide Jaskier, if any other travellers should happen across them. He plucks the chicken, and uses carefully controlled igni to cook the whole bird in just minutes while Jaskier updates Lambert with Eskel's findings. 

_He needs to see you, Lambert._

"Ah, fuck. _Fucking mages._ Yeah, you're right. Let's get going."


	29. I didn't mind the silver fox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding a curse

**Eskel**

It's late afternoon by the time they've stabled the horses. When asked by a young novice about the purpose of their visit, Eskel dithers for a moment, unsure whether to ask after Nenneke first or request a meeting with the high priestess. He trusts Nenneke, at least. As did Geralt.

"We may need to seek an audience with your high priestess, but first I would beg accommodation for the night, and request a visit to an old friend, if possible. Is Nenneke well?"

The novice nods, and shows them to guest quarters. "If you will wait here, I'll see if she is up to receiving visitors."

A few minutes later, the novice returns with word that Mother Nenneke has invited them to share dinner with her.

Nenneke is sitting up in bed, a tray across her lap. She waves to a table that has already been set with bowls of steaming soup, buttered bread and a small selection of fruit. Eskel notes that she is eating with her left hand, and one side of her face isn't as responsive as it should be. Stroke, perhaps? He sighs, a little sadly. She _is_ old. It is a strange concept, for a witcher, surrounded by deaths that are rarely gentle. Nenneke has been a good friend to them. He shakes his head, turning his attention back to the old woman.

"I'm afraid this is not exactly a social visit," Eskel tells her.

Nenneke glances at Geralt and back again. "I see that. Have you seen Eurmeid?"

"No. We came here first."

"You can trust her, but she can't help. Novice!" Nenneke calls, and the same young face pops back through the door.

"Fetch Iola, if you please, and be quick about it."

"Yes, Mother Nenneke."

"Don't call me mother," Nenneke grumbles with tired resignation for the title she has been unable to shed for more than forty years. 

When the grandmotherly Iola arrives, Eskel tells the pair everything he knows. From Jaskier's death and reincarnations, to the changes in Geralt, to the parallels he has found with the witcher from the past.

Nenneke beckons Geralt close, and together she and Iola place their hands on his head, still and silent for several minutes.

"His mind is... compartmentalised, divided into parts that are no longer communicating easily with each other. His grief is deep, as if his core self is locked in a room with that while he functions primarily on instinct. The... belief, believing he's imagining the things he thinks can't be real, that's on him. He's trying to protect himself from further pain. Iola can open connections between the different parts of his mind and plant the thought that he's mistaken about his insanity, but he will have to come around to the reality himself. That good-for-nothing rascal, Jaskier. Is he with you?"

"I think you'd have heard if a griffin had entered the temple," Eskel says with a wry smile. "He'll be here in the morning. He's avoiding Geralt."

"Come back in the morning, then. Now be off. I'm old, I need my rest."

Nenneke's eyes are starting to droop, and Eskel and Geralt quietly take their leave.

  
The next morning, Eskel leaves Geralt with Nenneke and waits for Jaskier in the courtyard by the eastern wall. When Jaskier sees him, he lands behind the temple at the edge of the mountain forest. More precisely, he lands on the wall of rock that forms a natural boundary to one side of the temple, eliciting a number of startled shrieks from novices in the courtyard. Eskel waves him down, and gets down on one knee to greet him with a warm hug, the shouts of alarm softening to surprise and awe until an older woman scolds the girls for the distraction.

Jaskier starts to purr, and Eskel feels something inside himself grow, a warmth spreading throughout his chest, something he felt so rarely, or rather - rarely free from the company of angst, that he names it inside his mind. _Love_.

Jaskier pulls back, his brilliant blue eyes wide. 

_Ahhh fuck. I guess that works both ways, Eskel thinks._

_I guess it does,_ Jaskier replies.

"Come on then, let's go and find Nenneke." 

  
It's one of the more surreal experiences of his extended life, walking through the halls of a temple with a griffin padding along beside him. Eskel knocks politely before opening the door to Nenneke's rooms. Geralt is sitting on a stool, the silent Iola's hands pressed to his head. He stiffens when Jaskier walks in, and Eskel feels Jaskier still beside him, freezing mid-step.

"Behave yourself," Nenneke snaps at Geralt.

Geralt's brow furrows, but he turns his attention back to Iola without responding further. Nenneke beckons Jaskier towards her. "Haven't you made a right mess of things? You always were one for trouble."

Jaskier presses his face into her hand, nuzzling almost like a cat.

"Stop that, you terror. Sentient griffin, eh? Would you claim sanctuary?"

Eskel's eyes widen. It wasn't an option he'd considered, and it will grant Jaskier protection from the idle chatter of novices.

"If you say yes, they will protect you. Keep your existence a secret. There's no down side."

Jaskier bobs his head as best he can, and Eskel chuckles. "He says yes."

"Granted. Eskel, take Geralt for a walk. Iola?"

  
Eskel isn't really sure whether it's Geralt he's keeping occupied, or himself. They spend an hour training, only to be interrpted when a commotion sounds near the front gate. 

Raven hair, lilac and gooseberries. _Yennefer_.

"You do remember I have the xenovox, right?" Eskel questions, one eyebrow raised as the beautiful sorceress strides towards him. 

She scowls at him. "I was there, now I'm here. You want my help, or not?"

Eskel grins. "I doubt you'll deny either of them."

"Don't test me, my middle isn't soft and squishy like Lambert's."

"Now _that's_ a lie," Eskel says, his grin widening further. "Come on. We can talk in the library."

Yennefer settles herself in one of the library's large soft armchairs while a novice fetches hot tea and sweet biscuits. Geralt leafs through a book at a lectern without reading, while Eskel does his best to relax as he and Yennefer update each other.

"Stregobor," she says with a sigh. "He's been doing some kind of experiments, as is his wont. He's been studying were-creatures, he created the creature that killed Jaskier. He's not happy about his dead monster, either. He knows it was a witcher, but not who."

"Geralt should have taken him down the moment he learned of his Black Sun obsession. That was dark, even for..."

"No arguments there," Yennefer replies. "I had to make nice to find out if cursing someone to become _human_ was safe and I don't trust that asshole, he would say yes just to find out the consequences. Fuck, he'll probably try it himself, we're going to have to take care of him at some point. The theory is sound, but it hasn't been tested."

The creak of a wheelchair sounds behind them, and a novice pushing Nenneke is followed by Jaskier's soft tread into the room. 

"Yennefer. You can curse the bard?" Nenneke asks the sorceress.

Yennefer nods.

"Good, it might help Geralt believe if he's human. He's all yours. Geralt, follow me."

Obediently, Geralt follows Nenneke out of the room, and Jaskier sits on the floor next to Eskel's chair, pressing himself against Eskel's leg.

"The theory is sound, I can curse you - but it's never been tested," Yennefer tells Jaskier bluntly. "It's your choice."

_Dying doesn't seem to be in my range of options right now, and if it will help Geralt... curse me, but I told Lambert I'd be back tonight. Can you do it tomorrow?_

Eskel relays Jaskier's words.

"I need to do it today. _Now_ , before there's any chance the moon can start the process. It's the first night of the full moon, and I don't know what time you'll change. I can stay long enough to make sure the transformation is safe, but then I have to get back to Lettenhove. Otherwise, you'll have to wait until I can get back."

"Lambert will be fine," Eskel says. "He knows you're with us."

"Jaskier, you can't go anywhere," Yennefer says. "Three days of the full moon starts tonight, if you change mid-flight you're dead. I'll stay to make sure your transformation is completed safely, but then I have to get back to work."

_Fine. Do it, but if Lambert is upset, you can explain._

"Lambert will understand," Eskel says, nodding at Yennefer, carefully suppressing his own doubt. _What if it doesn't work?_ "He wants the curse."

 _It's my choice,_ Jaskier replies to the unspoken thoughts, and Eskel winces.

"I know," Eskel says, out loud this time. He looks the very picture of relaxed witcher - a deceptive image, sprawled in an armchair looking down at Jaskier, hand patting the soft feathers of the griffin's mane in long, even strokes. "I didn't mean for you to hear. I don't want to risk losing you, that's all. Even if it's temporary, which isn't guaranteed."

"Over here if you're ready," Yennefer says, putting a bowl onto a small table in front over her. In it, she places a number of items, pouring a clear liquid over the top. 

"I'll need one of your feathers," Yenn says dryly, and Jaskier stands still for her to pluck it. She adds it to the bowl, and sets it alight with a flick of her fingers. 

Yennefer mutters words of magic while blue flames lick the air above the bowl. When the flames burn down and the bowl is left with only a residue of ash, she pulls out what looks like a very small claw.

"It's a human fingernail. Odious man. One of your relatives, in fact. Safest way. Wolf claw for a werewolf curse, human claw for a human one. Ready? It needs to draw blood."

Jaskier raises a paw, holding still while she pricks him with the sharpened nail clipping, drawing only the smallest bead of blood. Nothing happens, and Yennefer heaves a sigh of relief.

Eskel glares at her.

"I said the theory was sound, not that I wasn't _worried,"_ Yennefer snaps. "Now we wait."

Jaskier bounds back to Eskel's side in a single leap to reassure him, just as a novice brings in a plate piled high with sandwiches. 

"Lunch, Lady Yennefer, Master Witcher. Food for you too, Master griffin," she says nervously. "But the cook says you have to eat outside."

Eskel picks up the plate to follow. "We'll all go. Lead the way."

  
It's over dinner, just before dusk at a small table in the guest rooms, that Jaskier changes. Geralt is still with Nenneke, as nobody can predict how he will react to the shape-shifting. It's a fast and brutal process, the sounds of bones cracking and reshaping, hair, feathers and beak reabsorbed, until the soft-skinned, flawless, familiar face of the bard is standing in the centre of the room.

 _"Ow,"_ are the first words out of his mouth. "Glad to be me and everything, not to sound ungrateful, but that's not going to be a fun transformation every month. Wait... is it a night time only thing? Am I going to change again when the moon sets?"

"No," Yennefer tells him. "You'll stay like this for the three days. It's the full moon, whether you can see it or not." 

"Thank fuck," Jaskier says, stretching and rubbing his jaw as if it aches. "It's been so long since I could talk, ugh. _Witch - "_

Before Yennefer can move, Jaskier flings his arms around her neck. "Thank you."

Yennefer's arms flail for a moment before awkwardly patting his back, and then gently pushing him away.  
  
"You look young," Yennefer observes. "Twenty-five again."

"I didn't mind the silver fox," Eskel chimes in, and Yennefer chokes on her wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is chaos, RIP any intention I had to try to be more consistent with updates.


	30. Would you sing, if I play?

**Eskel**

"I'll let Nenneke know and take my leave," Yennefer says, pressing a small tin into Eskel's hand. "Destroy the nail if you need to break the curse. Oh, and Jaskier?"

"Hmmm?" Jaskier says absently, busy examining his face in a mirror, crinkling his eyes in an attempt to find non-existent crow's feet.

"Might want to put some clothes on before Nenneke gets here," Yenn says, sweeping out of the room.

Eskel jumps to his feet, rummaging through his pack for something suitable for Jaskier to wear. A few minutes later, Nenneke enters the room in her wheelchair, accompanied by a novice, Iola and Geralt.

Jaskier hurriedly pulls Eskel's oversized shirt over his head, leaving his legs bare, and something about _that_ is making Eskel feel all warm inside. The novice covers a smile with her hand - this is _Melitele's_ temple, after all - and Jaskier stands up from his seat on the edge of the bed. "Geralt?"

Geralt looks away, and Iola shakes her head. Jaskier sits down again, his face falling, and Eskel reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"We've done what we can," Nenneke informs them. "The rest is up to him. Jaskier, you should stay nearby, somewhere he can see you. Eskel, don't avoid interacting with Jaskier, Geralt should see you both behaving as you would normally, as much as that is possible. Jaskier, the room next door has been made up for you, but I can have a cot brought in here if you prefer."

"I'd like my own space," Jaskier says. "Lambert can share with me when he gets here. Thank you."

"Good luck. If you need anything else?"

"Lute," Jaskier says softly, glancing nervously at Geralt. "Eskel? I know Geralt kept it, I saw it on Roach, but..."

Geralt tenses visibly, finally making eye contact with Jaskier, fists clenched, eyes filled with a venemous glare, and Jaskier _crumbles._

"Eskel, please, I can't," he says, his voice ragged.

"Perhaps not _your_ lute, just yet. We have a serviceable one, Shari please fetch it, and some spare clothes," Nenneke says, waving her fingers at the novice. "Smaller steps than I hoped, I guess. He'll be able to hear you if you play from your room, perhaps the music will help."

"Stay with Geralt," Jaskier says sadly. "I know it's too early, I just... need some space. I want - I _need_ \- to watch for Lambert." 

Eskel isn't happy, but he also can't be in two places at once. As soon as he nods, Jaskier disappears through the door. He knows, instantly, it's the wrong decision. As much as Geralt needs him to be an anchor, Jaskier needs him too. By the time the novice returns a few minutes later, Eskel has made his decision. 

"I don't want to leave either of them alone," he says. "Iola, would you stay with Geralt?"

He hardly waits for Iola to nod before following Nenneke and the novice out the door.

He finds Jaskier sitting on the wall of the temple, overlooking the road beyond the main gate. It's a warm evening, cloud-free, and the full moon hangs heavy in the sky, illuminating the world with a cold blue light. The bard's shoulders are slumped, and as Eskel approaches, he wipes tears from his eyes. Eskel places the lute gently on the wall next to Jaskier, and sits just far enough away to be present, without intruding. 

Jaskier runs a hand slowly over the timber grain of the old instrument before picking it up and plucking at strings, adjusting the sound until he is happy with the tune. 

For a while, he plays haphazardly, testing his fingers, reminding himself of chords, small snippets of tunes, before settling into a melancholy piece. His attempts to sing, soft and low, result in his voice breaking, so he stops again.

"Thank you. Would you sing, if I play?" he asks Eskel. "I remember the songs you like. Bit rusty, I guess."

"Just me and the stars here. Of course."

He starts with an old hill song, something from Eskel's youth, strong and upbeat, then moves into some of the older ballads. He finally puts the lute aside, and with one last, worry-filled glance at the moonlit road ahead, heads to bed.

As dusk falls towards the end of the second day, Jaskier insists on climbing to the top of the walls to watch the road again. It's early yet, the earliest possible time Eskel has predicted for his arrival, if Lambert doesn't stop to rest. It should take him another day, but since the only predictable thing about Lambert is his biting sarcasm, Eskel can't discount the possibility that he will turn up tonight. He keeps Geralt busy training in the courtyard while Jaskier keeps a restless watch.

Barely an hour later, the bard streaks past them to the gate. Eskel tugs Geralt along. Lambert, in the distance, jogging, increases his pace when he sees the small group waiting for him. Jaskier has frozen in place a few paces outside the gate, his face running through a gamut of emotions in the cold blue light of the moon. 

  
Geralt stops behind Eskel. He avoids looking at Jaskier, watching Lambert approach instead.

Watching their reunion is like witnessing two stars collide. Eskel would later swear to seeing a golden glow envelop the pair, witcher and bard. One amber-eyed, rough-hewn and patched together, the other with eyes of sapphire and boasting a flawless, ethereal beauty. Foreheads lock together, Lambert's hands tangling in Jaskier's hair, holding him as if afraid he was never going to see him again.

Lambert, who had already _lost_ someone he must have loved as deeply. 

_"Buttercup,"_ he says in a relieved whisper, kissing Jaskier on the forehead.

"Ahhh, fuck," Eskel mutters under his breath, realising that he had dismissed Jaskier's concerns in his attempts to reassure the bard. The tension Jaskier has carried around for the past two days slowly bleeds out in the presence of a man Eskel would never have considered _calming._

Breaking the moment, Geralt stumbles across to the edge of the road, doubling over, clutching at his abdomen and retching, emptying the remains of his dinner onto the side of the road with a wet splat. Eskel rushes to his side, holding his hair away from his face. He hasn't seen Geralt throw up since he was put through the trials. 

"Jaskier," Geralt says, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. He stands up again, eyes flickering between Lambert and Jaskier.

Jaskier tears his eyes away from Lambert and watches Geralt warily. Lambert angles his body to stand in front of the bard, while Geralt pulls himself upright again, grabbing hold of Eskel's arm. His face loses its blank avoidance, slowly taking on a horrified expression.

"Jaskier," he says again, more firmly. Lambert keeps an arm protectively in front of Jaskier, and Geralt shifts his gaze to the younger witcher. "I'm not going to hurt him."

"You already have," Lambert growls.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"It's not his fault," Eskel says softly.

Geralt locks eyes with Eskel, shaking his head. "Don't."

"Give me a minute," Jaskier says, burying his face in Lambert's shoulder, Lambert turning to shield him from view.

When he looks up, his eyes are wet. By some silent communication between Jaskier and Lambert, Lambert steps behind him, keeping a hand on his back. 

"How?" Jaskier asks Geralt.

"Lambert," Geralt says, his voice cracking from disuse. "His... _you._ The way he is with you. That isn't something my mind would have made up to trick me. Iola may have opened my mind to the possibility, but Lambert just shattered my doubt. I'm sorry, Jaskier. I've caused you enough pain. You deserve to be happy, I won't stand in your way."

"I - you _what?_ No, don't you fucking dare, wolf," Jaskier snarls, and Geralt looks at him in surprise. "I didn't survive two years of _dying on repeat_ for us to get a do-over, only to make the _same fucking mistakes as last time."_

"But - " Geralt started, looking from Lambert to Jaskier and back again.

 _"Start by not making assumptions,"_ Jaskier growls, and then sighs. "I'm going to need time, Geralt, the last couple of years have been hell, we both made mistakes and we've hurt each other. Not on purpose, but it will take time to heal. I don't love you any less. I have loved you for a very long time, it's not something I can just stop doing. It just so happens that I also love Lambert, and we don't even know what that means yet, and well... I'm sure you've noticed how very, very hot Eskel is..."

Geralt's face goes blank. "What?"

"Darling, if we're going to start over and communicate, _everything_ goes on the table. I rather hope there's room for all of us."

"He's right," Eskel says gruffly, pulling Geralt around to face him. "We couldn't do this before, but there's no reason not to any more. There's only the three of us left. We can make our own rules now. Geralt of Rivia, I have loved you since before the trials, and it's time we stopped avoiding that."

Geralt's eyes widen to the size of saucers, the moon's light making them shine with a golden glow.

"I'd kiss him before he runs away if I were you," Jaskier suggests with an impish grin.

Lambert snickers, and Eskel ignores them both, catching Geralt's chin in his hand. 

"Not without your permission, and absolutely not afrer you've just thrown up," Eskel says, patting his cheek before turning to Lambert. "You too, asshole. Now get your ass inside, you need a bath. I could smell you before I could see you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reuniting? Please check out the gorgeous art of [airy-awry](https://airy-awry.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. [ This](https://airy-awry.tumblr.com/post/635028433432346624/im-leaving-the-speech-bubble-blank-let-me-know) gorgeous piece is exactly how I imagined Jaskier and Lambert here!


	31. Never been less sure of anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bathing, cuddling, a little negotiation and a little Lambden grief.

**Lambert**

"Hey," Lambert says, catching Jaskier's hand and holding him back while Geralt and Eskel make their way inside.

"Hey yourself," Jaskier responds, pressing himself back into Lambert's chest. "I'm sorry, I - Yenn - I didn't want to worry you, but I _couldn't_ get back."

"Obviously," Lambert interrupts. "I'm glad you're okay. She cursed you? How long do you have?"

"Yes. Three days. Nights. One more night, if Yenn's right."

"I need a bath first, but if it's your last night as a human for a while, you call the shots. What do you want tonight?"

"I..." Jaskier swallows heavily. "You, Lamb. Just want to be with you."

Jaskier leads the way to his guest room so Lambert can stow his pack. A few minutes later, Eskel knocks, bearing a plate of food. 

"Do you mind if we join you in the baths?" he asks directly.

The temple has a large bathing pool, and Lambert knows, there's no expectation of celibacy in the temple of Melitele, in the baths or elsewhere. Jaskier looks to Lambert for a response, but it's _Jaskier's_ last day. "Your day, your choice Buttercup."

Eskel nods his agreement. 

"Yes, but only if Lambert _wants_ you there."

Lambert flicks Eskel on the nose on the way out. "Bring the dickhead and the food with you."

  
Overtired and clumsy, Lambert strips in the bathing room, leaving his clothes on the floor where they land and dousing himself with lukewarm water in an alcove specially designed for washing. He picks up a bar of soap and a cloth from a basket along the wall, and is about to start scrubbing the accumulated sweat and road dust off when cool, soft fingers stay his hands. Jaskier waves towards a wooden bench.

"May I?" he asks, waiting for Lambert to nod and sit before standing behind him, carefully working a lather through Lambert's hair and rinsing it out, then working over the rest of his body with a thorough efficiency. Lambert feels himself drifting off, until another bucket of warm water is tipped over his head, rinsing off the last of the soap and lingering grime. He pulls Jaskier between his legs, resting his head on his stomach, and deft fingers stroke through his wet hair. 

"Darling, you're getting my clothes all wet. Let me wash too, then you can drift off in the pool."

Suddenly, a pair of strong arms is supporting him from behind. _Eskel_. He's distantly aware of Jaskier and Geralt washing, then being led to the pool, down the steps and settled with Jaskier sitting on a ledge behind him, arms around his chest, stopping him from slipping under the water. 

"Eat, love," Jaskier says in a soft voice behind him, and he opens his eyes to see Geralt holding a bite-size piece of meat out for him. His body feels impossibly heavy, limbs dragging down with the force of their own weight. He tries to lift his arm out of the water to take the offered food, but Geralt pushes his hand down firmly, pressing the morsel to his lips, waiting for Lambert to open his mouth, to be _fed_. A murmer of approval comes from behind him, and he worries that that should bother him, but he's so _tired_ , the weariness bone deep after two days of forced travel with minimal food and less rest. 

Perhaps it would be okay to be taken care of, just this once. As if reading his mind, Jaskier presses a kiss just below his ear. 

"I've got you, Lamb. Let go."

He's barely aware of Eskel splashing into the pool, coming to stand behind Geralt, and he closes his eyes. The soft sounds of movement through water, the eternal thud of Geralt and Eskel's slow, stable heartbeats contrasting with the bard's much faster human one, the scraps of food passing his lips are all he's aware of while he drifts, safe in Jaskier's arms.

When he wakes in the morning, it's in a large bed, cool cotton sheets and a thin blanket covering him. Jaskier is sprawled out on his stomach, just his hips covered by the sheet, gooseflesh forming on exposed skin. He rolls onto his side, pulling at the sheet and blanket until they cover the bard. Jaskier curls in towards the warmth, nuzzling into Lambert's neck with a soft sigh.

Lambert's body _responds,_ but when he tries to move back, Jaskier follows him, seeking body heat with the precision of a striking viper, and before he knows it Jaskier's thigh is pressing against his erection. He makes another attempt to disentangle himself, and Jaskier's eyes flutter awake. He reaches up to brush a stray lock of Lambert's hair away from his face - with the beeswax concoction he used to slick his hair back washed away, his hair is soft and wavy, and inconveniently out of control.

"You're so beautiful," Jaskier murmers, still half asleep. 

"I'm hard," Lambert corrects. Jaskier doesn't move his leg.

"Mmmhm, and beautiful. Relax. 'sok. Safe."

_Safe. Friends first. He won't do anything I don't want. Nothing has to change._

The bright glitter of blue eyes watches him from beneath hooded lids, waiting for Lambert to respond.

"What if I want things to change?" Lambert asks.

Jaskier's eyes open wide. "Are you sure?"

"Never been less sure of anything. I'm _never_ going to be sure."

Jaskier presses his lips to Lambert's, and the kiss is brief, chaste, and although Lambert chases it, Jaskier nuzzles back into Lambert's neck, his breathing evening out again as he falls back asleep. Lambert feels something shatter inside him, fragile as breaking glass, unable to contain his feelings any longer. He doesn't cry, but it's a close call, and he swallows against the ache in his throat. Closing his eyes, he focuses on his breathing until he feels calm again.

"I love you too," he whispers to the sleeping form beside him before joining it in slumber. 

The next time he wakes up it's to a soft knock from Eskel, bringing in a tray of food.

"You missed breakfast," the older witcher admonishes.

"Not getting up today," Jaskier mumbles from under the sheet. "Like it here. Lambert's warm."

Lambert smiles, willing to indulge anything Jaskier wants, and Eskel chuckles.

Jaskier opens one eye, glaring at Eskel, then pokes Lambert in the ribs. "C'mon, let's go empty bladders, I want to spend the day in bed."

"You, stay," Jaskier growls at Eskel on their way past. 

When they return to the room, Jaskier calls to Geralt down the hallway. "Get your white hairy ass in here too, old man." Inside, he pushes Eskel towards the bed and sits, pulling Lambert in behind him to use as a back rest. 

"Get in, both of you," he says when Geralt enters the room. When Geralt hesitates, Jaskier sighs. "I don't know how long I have, like this. I expected to turn back before dawn. It will be another month before... please. I just want you all close." 

Lambert snakes an arm around Jaskier's waist, and Jaskier wriggles back into his warmth with a contented sigh. Eskel reaches his hand out to Geralt, and sits behind Geralt on the bed, mirroring Jaskier and Lambert's position. Jaskier tugs at their shirts.

"Off," he orders. "I want skin."

"Bossy," Geralt growls, even as he does as instructed.

"Don't you forget it," Jaskier retorts, running hands over bare arms, tracing scars, stroking with long fingers. Eskel watches Jaskier over Geralt's shoulder with dark eyes.

"You two, last night?" Jaskier asks, and Eskel nods. 

Geralt flinches, his face taking on a guilty cast, and Jaskier leans over, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"Good," Jaskier says calmly, and Geralt's eyes widen in response.

"I want you _all,"_ Jaskier repeats. "Why would I begrudge you each other as well? I don't want to be in charge of a... harem, I want... us. All of us. Together, however we fit. Equally. Yes?"

Eskel agrees quickly; Geralt, frowning, after a minute's thought.

"Lambert?" Jaskier asks softly. Lambert's breath catches, and he realises he's flexing his fingers in Jaskier's hip, kneading like a cat. 

"Yeah. But... at my pace," Lambert says eventually. "And - not without you."

Eskel looks a little sad at that, but he nods. He knows. Jaskier has been there for him, when the others weren't. He's proven himself, same as Aiden did. He's safe, he won't push, or take, or manipulate. If the others want him like this, they need to earn that trust too. Regret and pretty words about self-reflection and new beginnings aren't enough to erase the past.

 _Aiden._ Aiden would want him to keep living, to take whatever joy he can out of life, but the thing is, whenever he tries, no matter how hard he tries, Aiden is never coming back to share it.  
  
Eskel reaches over to brush at Lambert's cheek with his finger. "Whatever you need, Lamb."

Geralt's eyes are on him too, and the white-haired witcher nods his agreement.

Jaskier's hand tightens over the top of his own.

"You okay?" the bard asks softly, twisting himself to look over his shoulder at Lambert.

Lambert presses his face into Jaskier's neck. "I will be."

For once in their lives, Geralt and Eskel don't tease him for his vulnerability. For once in _his_ life, he doesn't feel the need to bite back pre-emptively, and Jaskier squeezes his hand.

"Food," Eskel prompts, creating a welcome distraction, reaching over for the plate of bread and biscuits and cheese he purloined from the kitchens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, we have some soft. Bath scenes are probably overdone at this point but I do not care, give Lambert all the nice things.


	32. I hate him already

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off to Vengerberg to collect the ponies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small smut ahead! It's scattered throughout the second half, marked off with *****, so if you want to skip it head to the end for a summary.

**Jaskier**

  
Eskel puts a pile of freshly laundered clothing in a pile on top of a chest of drawers. "Went through your pack, last night. You were dead to the world. Everything's clean."

"Eskel carried you back, you didn't wake up until this morning," Jaskier tells him, and Lambert flushes pink.

"You wanted..."

"Lambert, I got what I wanted. I just needed you close. Why am I still human, do you think? I thought I'd change early. Oh... I feel like I'm going to be sick."

Standing up from the bed on wobbly legs, Jaskier makes his way to the room's washstand, gripping the edge of the table, making the ceramic pitcher clatter against the bowl holding it. His body gives a twitch.

"Geralt, help me get his clothes off," Eskel says abrutly, pulling the soft linen shirt Jaskier is wearing over the top of his head.

"Is this really the time - " Jaskier starts, before doubling over with a shout.

"You're changing back, Songbird. Help us."

"Oh. _Fuck."_ Jaskier pulls at the ties of his trousers, fumbling as the muscles in his hands spasm tightly, forming a clawed shape. Eskel sweeps his hands away and tugs, and between them Eskel and Geralt manage to remove both trousers and braies before Jaskier falls to his hands and knees. Lambert kneels by his head, and Jaskier closes his eyes and lets it happen. 

Searing agony blocks out everything else, and when he opens his eyes again he's not sure how much time has passed. Lambert is stroking his hair - _head, mane, feathers,_ talking to him in a soft voice. 

"He's back," he hears Lambert say, and he feels Geralt and Eskel join them on the floor. "You feeling okay?"

Jaskier squawks.

_Ahhh fuck. Feel like I've been run over by a herd of... big. Something big. One of those giant creatures in the Oxenfurt museum - they have a skeleton, say used to room the earth. Seems valid, I feel properly trampled._

"Jask - " Eskel's voice sounds concerned. "You're... not the same."

Jaskier looks down at his golden body, his lion's paws, the tufted tail. _Look the same to me?_

"The feathers in your mane are white," Lambert tells him.

Jaskier twists his head around, catching sight of the feathers below his neck. _I feel the same. Is that the only thing?_

"You did your blue glowy thing again," Eskel says. "And it's been _exactly_ three days. You changed after dinner, just before dusk on the first day. It's the same time now."

_Yenn said three days._

"Moon cycles are... not twenty-four hours, the moon doesn't follow the same rules as the sun. Moonrise varies, it's nearly an hour later each day. It shouldn't be three days _precisely."_

_What does that mean?_

"I don't know, but it's _weird,"_ Eskel says. "You're okay, that's what matters. We leave tomorrow, need to pick Roach and Scorpion up from Vengerberg. If we make good time, we can stay there through the next full moon. Where do you want to sleep?"

 _I slept half the day,_ Jaskier says, at the same time as Lambert says, "why waste time? Moon's still nearly full, sky's clear. We've all slept more than we need to today."

"One more night in a proper bed won't hurt anyone," Eskel objects, looking to Geralt for support.

"Want to get moving. You're outvoted."

 _"Fine,"_ Eskel capitulates. "Get everything packed, I'll see if the temple can spare some food and maybe a horse for Lambert. Meet at the stables." 

The temple could, in fact, spare a horse. More accurately, they spared two: an elderly gelding and fat little pony, with the request that if both could be returned to the sanctuary in Vengerberg, the mistress of the horses would be ever so grateful, and if they also wouldn't mind perhaps making a stop at Hagge to deliver a second pony?

Lambert glares at Eskel. "This is going to slow us down, not speed us up!"

"You rather run all the way there? They helped us, we can return the favour."

"I can walk faster than that nag, and anyway, _I_ still have a horse. The one that I loaned you. You two buffoons can fight over the other one."

Eskel, at least, has the good grace to look embarrassed, and when Geralt leads the horses out, he hands the reins of Lambert's horse back to Lambert. "We'll rotate. Won't lose much time."

The three weeks to Vengerberg pass relatively uneventfully. Jaskier hunts, as before, delivering fresh game to the campsite each evening. At some point, one of the horses throws a shoe. A pony is delivered to Hagge, the old horse doesn't founder, and summer rolls on with time's stately march.

Every night, bedrolls are pressed together, in twos or more often three to sleep while one keeps watch. Jaskier, as the fastest traveller, also takes the longest watch each night. He catches up on sleep during the day while waiting for the others to catch up. 

*****

Occasionally, Geralt and Eskel sneak off together, returning to camp flushed and smelling of sex. Lambert rolls his eyes, and after the third time in as many days, confronts them.

"We were trying to be considerate," Geralt says. "I didn't think it was fair on either of you."

_You could have talked to us._ _We''ve talked about it._ _You're allowed time by yourselves, and it's new and precious, but we could also talk about - I mean, if you'd be into it. We'd like to watch. Lambert needs time, it might help him adjust, ease into it._

Eskel and Geralt's heads swivel in tandem to look at Lambert, who stares back at them with a challenge in his eyes. 

"Fine, I'm in," Eskel says with a growl, pouncing on Geralt and knocking him on his backside. He follows gracefully, like a predator, but waits for Geralt to nod before indulging in a filthy kiss, all tongues and teeth and groping hands, wrestling for dominance. Eskel already has the upper hand, and although Geralt doesn't let him win easily, he's also clearly not sorry when he loses the fight.

Jaskier flops down on his belly next to Lambert, who reaches out without thought, and Jaskier locks their minds together for a silent conversation.

 _This is... fuck, I want Eskel's thighs to crush me,_ Jaskier notes, and Lambert chuckles silently.

_Lambert, my dreams have been getting more..._

_Horny,_ Lambert fills in. _Yeah, I noticed._

Eskel has managed to pull Geralt's trousers down to free his cock with one hand, while the other pins his wrists to the ground above his head. 

_So, I sort of had an idea - fuck, did Geralt just whine? Oh... oh my. Oh gods. Eskel, your tongue..._

_Idea?_ Lambert prompts.

 _What idea?_ Jaskier asks blankly.

_You said you had an idea. Something about your dreams._

_Right! Yes!_ Jaskier says, turning his head to look at Lambert, noting the bulge in his trousers that he isn't doing anything about. _You know, I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you got yourself off watching,_ he points out.

 _Not today,_ Lambert says. _Idea?_

_Oh. Well, I was going to ask with rather more poetry but those two fuckers have stolen my last brain cell. I can pull you into my mind, my imagination. We could fuck there. Watching this, I really don't think I want to wait for the next full moon._

Geralt's trousers have disappeared, although he's still wearing a black shirt, rucked up high on his chest. His knees are bent, legs spread wide, and he licks his lips. Somehow, Eskel still has his wrists pinned to the ground with one hand, and he pulls a vial of oil from a pocket, pulling the stopper out with his teeth and growling when a paltry few drops of oil land on his fingers. 

Lambert gets up and moves to the cooking supplies, but Eskel shakes his head, waving the empty bottle at his own saddlebags. "Bottle the same as this one."

Lambert complies, and when he reaches out to hand Eskel the bottle, Eskel grabs his wrist, pulling him closer. Lambert cups his face, kissing him gently on the lips, a stark contrast to the roughness between Geralt and Eskel, and Jaskier almost dies on the spot.

"Thank you, little wolf," Eskel says, taking the vial from Lambert's hand. Lambert quietly returns to his place next to Jaskier. 

_Okay,_ Lambert's voice rings in Jaskier's mind. _But the first time... just me and you. And something impersonal. Aiden and I would play games, sometimes. Pretend we were strangers, or different people. It helped. So I didn't get overwhelmed._

Geralt, writhing on Eskel's fingers, starts to moan and beg for more, but Eskel, determined to torture, Jaskier notes, ignores the pleas to proceed at his own pace. 

_Fuck, Eskel is going to be the death of me. Yeah, we can do that. Lamb, can I pull you into my mind? I don't want to follow that thought up now - okay, fuck, I - do. But I won't, I just want to be me, to talk about it._

Lambert nods, and Jaskier switches to his vision, the scene that is still in front of them, Lambert sitting next to him, Jaskier in human form sitting by his side. The bulge in his own imaginary trousers is equally prominent, and Lambert smirks. "I know what to smell for now."

"I'm always horny, your witchery scenting fetish is going to be well fed," Jaskier teases. 

Geralt has been reduced to mindless gibbering, and Eskel still has his own trousers on. 

"I hate him already," Jaskier says, unable to tear his eyes away.

"Liar," Lambert says, pointedly staring at Jaskier's straining cock, still trapped in its cloth prison.

"Shut up and tell me what you have in mind for imagination-fucking," Jaskier demands.

Eskel has finally freed his own cock, his trousers bunched down slightly around his hips, otherwise still fully dressed, and he sinks inside Geralt in one long, slow movement. Jaskier lets out a long moan as he watches, a twin to Geralt's own. Eskel starts slowly, pulling almost all the way out of Geralt and thrusting slowly in again. Geralt looks wrecked, reduced to whimpers peppered with the occasional 'more' and 'please'. 

"Something public," Lambert says next to him. "Can you hold a vision with other people in it?"

"Fuck, Lambert. _Yes._ Probably, if it's somewhere familiar. I'll practise. Openly public sex, or something discrete?"

"Discrete, and - " Lambert pauses.

"Lamb, I've been a horny bard for a long time, there isn't much I haven't tried and I know what I like. You want to be ordered around, or in charge in some way? I'm on board for either. Restraints, roleplay, even some darker stuff? We'd have to talk about limits, but... I do have a bit of a thing for being forced, if that's something you'd be into."

Lambert heaves a sigh of relief. "Yeah. I have some ideas."

"Good. Can I kiss you now?"

Lambert nods. Eskel's pace quickens, and the sounds of skin slapping on skin as he fucks into Geralt with rhythmic regularity, the grunting and whimpered pleas for more. Jaskier presses his lips to Lambert's with a desperate moan of his own, and Lambert flips him onto his back, hovering over the top of him, meeting his lips with a hungry growl to the sounds of Eskel reaching his climax, Geralt following shortly after with a shout. Jaskier's hips rut uselessly against air in response, and Lambert eases back into a more tender kiss before pulling away.

"Take us back before I take this too far," Lambert says, his voice tight.

Jaskier cups Lambert's face in his hands, kissing him again, and lets the vision fade out. He turns to Lambert, to see him raising a hand to his lips, as if still feeling the ghost of Jaskier's lips on his, and his yellow eyes drill into Jaskier's.

"Vengerberg," he says softly. 

_Vengerberg,_ Jaskier agrees, turning back to watch Eskel, still seated inside a boneless Geralt, lavishing him with lazy kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eskel and Geralt disappear for some alone time along the way and we all know what their communication skills are like, triggering some polyam discussions and a sex scene with Jaskier/Lambert watching, and having their own talk about how to go forward. including a kink request from Lambert who doesn't want to get overwhelmed by too much softness; they agree to try in Vengerberg.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout at me below.


End file.
